


Emberarmie

by SideraMori (VisceralViscaria)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: (Not literal fairies though), (but lightsabers don't), A whole bunch of Force nonsense, Alternate Universe - Cinderella Fusion, Brendol Hux is the Worst Dad, Child Abuse, Even in a Cinderella AU he can't escape the wrath of Kylo Ren, Hux-centric, I lied there are both light and sabers, Multi, Phasma has a prosthetic arm, She and Unamo are the best fairy godmothers you can have, as in the Grimm Brothers' version, but Hux won't let that stop him, poor Mitaka, the force still exists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-10-25 18:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10770135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VisceralViscaria/pseuds/SideraMori
Summary: For three nights, anyone and everyone will be allowed inside the palace. They will dance in beautiful clothes, drink as much wine as they please, and consume a feast in the same hall as their king. Young or old, rich or poor, beautiful or beastly, all are to be cast aside in favor of partaking in a night of luxury. The only requirement is that you hide your face. After all, the guest of honor will certainly be hiding his.The Master of the Knights of Ren seeks a spouse.The kingdom shudders to imagine what kind of person a man like that could need.---In the original tale, Cinderella lives her life being pious and good, and so she gets her happy ending.Hux is neither of those things.





	1. Once upon a Time I

**Author's Note:**

> First of all oh my god what am I doing. This is my first time writing Kylux and my first time doing _any_ serious writing in around two years. I am very rusty, so while I definitely appreciate constructive criticism please don't be too harsh _:(´□`」 ∠):_ 
> 
> This is an AU based on the [Grimm Brothers'](http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/grimm021.html) version of Cinderella, which is actually _very_ different from the one most people know. It works well for this though, so I'm not complaining.
> 
> For now I'm putting the number of chapters at a tentative eleven, but that could easily go up. Everything is currently unbetaed so if you see a mistake please tell me!!!!! Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy the story :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These first two chapters were meant to be one, but it would've been way too long. It's mostly just setting the story and me trying to find my Hux, so bear with me??

**♛**

 

            Armitage Hux is born in the year 0 ABY. He is one month, two weeks, and six days early, and already he is living on borrowed time.

 

            His body is small. He is frighteningly thin and startlingly pink, from his kicking feet to the tufts of red that drift around his head like a crown. It takes far too long for him to take his first breath, and the midwives are in mourning even as they wipe the blood from his cheeks. He is too small, too frail, too weak. He will not survive, their eyes warn, and they hand off the bundle to his mother even as they know he is not hers to keep.

 

            Parielle Hux knows these women, hears what they cannot say, and she does not care. She was a simple kitchen maid, wooed by a handsome man of high standing and the dream of being special, being _more_ , for just one night. She was never meant to conceive. And she was never meant to learn that being special came at a price.

 

            From the moment the Commandant learned she was with child, her life has been hell. When she told him she was pregnant he told her to get rid of it and offered to help. When she refused to terminate the child he attempted to beat it out of her. When that didn’t work he tried to kill her, strangling her in the very room they had met for their tryst, but even then she was spared, a maid finding them when she came to change the sheets. The threat of gossip loomed above their heads, and before her womb could visibly swell she and the Commandant were wed. Every day became a fight not to draw his ire, every beating a challenge to see how quickly she could curl in over her belly to protect a child she had never met.

 

            And now her baby, the life she had felt grow within her, had suffered for, had given her body to protect, is cradled to her breast. Parielle gazes down at her son’s crying face and feels the specter of Death looking over her shoulder, hears the women she has known as friends murmur that her son will have withered away by year’s end, and makes a choice.

 

_Let Death come. If he wants Armitage, then he will go through me._

 

            And she leans down to press a kiss to his head.

 

**♛**

 

            The year is 4 ABY and the world is on fire.

 

            Armitage does not understand what has happened, how it could still be happening. Arkanis Academy is collapsing around him as explosions rock the earth, raining chunks of plaster from the ceiling. Ruble has fallen and crushed the neat rows of desks where daily lessons were given, where his classmates had sat. There is blood pooling on the floor where children were not quick enough to escape.

 

            Armitage is still on the ground where he’d been thrown by the first blast, his ears ringing while his lungs heave in his chest. The air is filling with smoke and dust and his ankle is bent the wrong way. It is supposed to hurt, he knows, but he cannot feel it. It is hard to feel anything beyond the shock that has taken over and numbed his being.

 

            Directly in front of him is his Instructor. Her body has been torn nearly in two, and he watches with distant fascination as she coughs and chokes and red flows from her wounds, creeping closer and closer to his head. He wonders if the Commandant has gotten out safely.

 

            He does not delude himself into thinking he will do the same.

 

            There is another explosion, nearly overhead, and Armitage flinches as the walls and ceiling groan around him, visibly shuddering from the impact. The jarring of his ankle sends a shock of pain through his body and suddenly he feels too much, is able to feel _everything_ ; his heart is racing in his chest and his head is bleeding and he can’t breathe, he can’t _breathe-_

 

            The fear is a crushing weight on his chest and it is pure animal instinct that leads him to call out, to cry for the one person with the power to save him from this mess. “ _Father!_ ”

 

            The door, already loose on its hinges, is kicked open. It slams into what is left of the wall as a tall figure in black strides in. Armitage’s vision is blurry, and it takes him a moment to figure out that he’s crying. He blinks furiously as the shadow leans over him, and his eyes clear just enough for him to realize it’s a blank-faced woman staring down at him with cold eyes.

 

            “Armitage Hux.” It is not a question, even though it should be.

 

            Regardless, Armitage nods his head and speaks around the scratchy ache in his throat. “Yes, ma’am.” That alone is enough to send him into a coughing fit, and the woman patiently waits for it to end.

 

            She crouches down and lets her eyes flick across his prone form, narrowing when they land on his ankle where it’s twisted. “Can you walk?” Her voice is low and smooth, comforting in its frankness, and Armitage instinctively knows she is someone important.

 

            Someone like his father.

 

            It is this thought that has him gritting his teeth and rising to his elbows, curling inward until his knees are beneath him. He is shaky and slow, but he makes it to his feet, and even though it’s agonizing he cannot help his pride when he sees that the woman is impressed.

 

            It’s all ruined in an instant when another blast has the floor bucking beneath his feet, and he cries out as he prepares to fall again.

 

            There’s an arm around his waist and he is being lifted easily, the woman already moving by the time he registers the shift in space. She’s running with him held to her chest, and with every stride his ankle bounces against his other leg. It is excruciating and he wants to shout, but bites down on his gloved hand instead, the taste of leather and dust coating his tongue.

 

            The woman glances down at the movement before tuning back in to their surroundings. She is quiet, and when she speaks Armitage nearly loses her words to the pounding in his head. “You are stronger than I had been led to believe.”

 

            Armitage does not know how to respond, and loses his chance as they reach their destination. They have somehow made it to the back of the school, opposite the worst of the fighting, and a fleet of sleek black carriages is waiting for them. The Commandant is flocked by groups of soldiers where he stands, as immaculate and untouched by violence as he has always been, and he sneers when he catches sight of Armitage in the woman’s arms. Striding forward, he barks out, “Sloane, put the boy down! Coddling him can only make him weaker than he already is.” His eyes are cold and ruthless when he glares at his son. “If he cannot get here on his own, then he deserves to be left behind.”

 

            Carefully schooling his expression into something neutral, Armitage lowers his eyes and prepares to be let down, his small body tensed as he readies for pain. He will have to hop forward and hope he doesn’t fall, doesn’t slow them down any more than he already has. This is his punishment for letting himself be injured and wasting his father’s valuable time. He knows that he is weak, that he has brought his father shame, and bites his lip to hold back a whine. The Commandant is right. If they leave him here, it is only because he is not strong enough to survive.

 

            It surprises both Huxes when the woman, Sloane, walks straight past the Commandant and gently settles him onto a seat. She pulls out a knife and is cutting him free of his boot even as she casually calls over her shoulder, “Now now, _Brendol_ , we both know I’m not the coddling type. I’ve been ordered to extract you _both_ , and while I have no intentions of failing, I’m sure that if I did Fleet Admiral Gallius Rax would be quite interested to learn that _you_ are the reason why.” Her dark eyes flick up to his when the Commandant sputters, the corners of her full lips curving up into a smirk. Armitage feels his heart stop in his chest and sucks in a startled breath. He knows his eyes are wide, knows that his response is inappropriate, but he is amazed. He has never heard anyone speak that way to the Commandant in his life.

 

            Without giving the Commandant time to respond Sloane rises to her feet. She orders them to move out, her tone one of boredom even as the tension in the air is swallowed up in a flurry of activity. The scorned father comes to sit by his son, subdued anger rolling off him in waves, and Armitage ducks his head. He cannot afford to look up, not yet; the Commandant would not appreciate the answering quirk of his lips.

 

            The New Republic takes Arkanis. Armitage, in a strange twist of fate, sees it off with a smile.

 

**♛**

 

            In the Fall of 12 ABY, Parielle Atheca Hux dies in her sleep.

 

            It is less of a sudden drop than a gradual decline, years of stress eating away at her and opening the door for disease. With each passing day she grew more gaunt and pale, her blonde hair and grey eyes making her wraith-like, a ghost any time she stepped into the light. The family physicians would cure one ailment only for another to rise in its place, a seemingly endless cycle of sickness and health, one that her husband passively observed from the wayside.

 

            With Armitage enrolled in his father’s new academy, the days that he saw her were few and far between. Each time was a shock, the difference a month could make almost staggering, and yet there was nothing he could do.

 

            On the better days he would sit with her and talk, or bring her favorite flowers, everlilies, and they would weave each other delicate crowns. The tiny white flowers with their black-jeweled hearts made her look tragically beautiful, a portrait whose story had been lost to time, her wistful smiles even more so. When they were done she would set his aside and run a comb through his fiery hair, telling him stories or asking to hear one of his own, and they could both pretend that nothing was wrong, at least for a little while.

 

            On the bad days, her body would fail her to the point that she couldn’t sit up on her own, and Armitage would help her in whatever way he could, setting the everlilies in a vase on her nightstand where they might still catch the soft candlelight. Their conversations were more one-sided than not, his mother listening to him with an indulgent smile as he lied about his life at the academy. Neither one of them believed what he said, Armitage knowing that even now Parielle could see right through him, and it was almost like he was telling her just another story.

 

            The worst days were the ones where he would arrive only to find her already asleep, her bone-white hair fanning over the pillows while her breaths were so shallow one might think she was already gone. On those days, he would drag over his chair and simply hold her hand. It was enough for him to sit by her side.

 

            The Commandant never failed to punish him for his visits. The longer he spent with her, the more bruises would litter his body. Over and over again his father would beat him, telling him he had failed him, that he would be as spineless as his wife if he kept this up, that the other boys at the academy would tear him apart. Attachments made one weak. _Love_ was a fool’s game that only led to pain and grief. “After all,” the Commandant would spit, “Just look at what it’s done to your mother.”

 

            It pained him to do so, but he had to agree. Not because of the Commandant, he knew that his mother held no love in her heart for _him_ , but because of what Parielle had told him the night before she died.

 

_“Armitage,” she whispered, her voice barely audible at that point, “Armitage, do you know that I love you?”_

 

_He squeezed her hand as gently as possible, feeling her thin bones through her skin, and leaned in. “Yes, mother. I do.”_

 

 _Parielle sighed, her shallow chest sinking downward and pressing her into the mattress. “Then I have managed to do at least one thing right.” A wan smile curved her lips, and her eyes fluttered open to meet his. “Armitage, I need you to listen carefully. Love… Love is a_ powerful _thing. No matter what your father may tell you, if your love is true then it makes you anything but weak. I went through so much suffering to meet you, and yet every moment I spend with you has given me strength. Never forget that.” Her hand gently curled around his own and gave a light squeeze. “But, Armitage, with all of the strength that love can give you, it can hurt you just as easily. Love makes you vulnerable in ways you wouldn’t expect. The people you give your heart are the ones most capable of breaking it.” Grey eyes burned into his own, the intensity he found there startling after so many months of seeing them watery and sunken deep into her cheeks. “Do not fear love. But do not give it away until you’re ready.”_

 

_Armitage, for all that he had been through in his short and harrowing life, could not know the gravity of her words, not yet. But he felt them settle into his heart alongside the warmth of her hand, and knew that if he waited long enough he just might. “I understand.”_

 

 _At his words all of the tension drained from her body and she closed her eyes, a smile of relief blooming across her tired face. “Good. Be strong, Armitage. This world is cruel, but filled with beautiful things. Never stop looking. I will always be with you, so_ live, _Armitage. Live, and thrive.”_

 

_She fell silent and Armitage slowly released her hand, recognizing that she was succumbing to her need for sleep. He stayed by her side until her breaths evened out, and then blew out the candles and kissed her cheek. As he rose from his chair, he paused to murmur a soft, “I love you, mother,” and slipped out into the night._

 

            It is cold and windy, the light thin and soft where it falls through the clouds. The ceremony is small, so small, and part of Armitage cannot quite believe that these are the only people who have bothered to gather for the end of his mother’s life. The cemetery is a fifteen-minute walk from his house. When he was younger he and his mother would pass it by, swinging their clasped hands, the light tolling of church bells mimicking her laughter at whatever clever turn of phrase he had found in his childish mind. Nothing made him feel as warm inside as her flushed cheeks and beaming smile, not even praise from the Commandant. And now, staring at the bouquet of everlilies resting on her coffin, he feels numb and sluggish and cold. Her words keep playing in his head without his permission, a constant white noise that leaches the heat from his body.

 

_Do you know that I love you?_

 

            The man giving the eulogy is someone he has never met, one of the Commandant’s acquaintances; his voice is loud and gravely, and he clearly knows nothing about the woman he is meant to be sending off to the other side. Armitage blinks, and blinks, and in the cage of his mind he is screaming. His mother would have hated him. His words are beautiful and elegant and flow like poetry, and could not be further from the truth if he tried. There is fire in his veins and smoke in his lungs and Armitage feels like he’s drowning. He swallows around the lump in his throat and feels something deep inside of him die.

 

 _Love is_ powerful _._

 

            The only one here who Parielle might have considered a friend is an old woman in a dark grey shawl, the maid assigned to her personal care. Her wrinkled face is stuck in a permanent frown, the lines etched in so deeply that they refuse to move even as she cries. When she blows into her handkerchief and catches his eye, she gives a stiff nod and looks back to the coffin. Her eyes are glassy and rimmed in red. His eyes are red too, he knows, but only because they are so dry. Something inside of him has broken. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how much he might want them to, his tears won’t fall. The grief wells up and settles, cruelly burning in his eyes.

 

_No matter what your father may tell you…_

 

            The Commandant’s seat is conspicuously empty. Even after everything his father has done, this still somehow manages to take him by surprise. The sight of it punches the air from his lungs and has him staring like a fool, seeing and understanding and yet completely mystified. He takes his seat and feels the absence at his side gape like a wound. The open chair garners more and more attention the longer it takes his father to arrive, the more obvious it becomes that he never will. He is stripped raw by the gawking and stares of pity, powerless to stop them as he clenches his fists in his lap and struggles to hide how fast he’s breathing. Without gloves to stop them his nails cut deep crescents into his palms. His eyes, trained on the coffin as it sinks into the ground, don’t notice the red slowly staining his sleeves.

 

            He will never forgive him. No matter what he does, what he says, how many years go by. He will not forgive this, the Commandant’s final act of spite toward his wife. For the first time, Armitage lets his hatred consume him and gives his heart to the flames. Heat carves into his soul like a brand and cools it just as quickly, leaving steel and sharp edges behind. The weaker parts of him are lost to the inferno, ashes on his tongue, crumbling and dry. The shock of the change is like ice water running down his spine and gathering beneath his ribs, an awakening that lets him finally see through the shroud of emotion that had clouded his mind for so long.

 

            He wants to kill his father. He wants to hurt him, break him, _burn_ him, watch him crawl on hands and knees and beg him for his life. But more than anything, he wants to tell him no. And he wants see his face when he tells him that _this_ , not the beatings, not the humiliation, not the scorn and disappointment and words meant to break his mind, but this one single moment of neglect is why.

 

_Be strong, Armitage._

 

_This world is cruel._

 

_Live, and thrive._

 

            The boy who craved his father’s validation and loved his mother so much it hurt watches the first shovelful of dirt rain down on a black and white bouquet. He watches those that follow as well, long after most have stopped looking, long after the crowd has dispersed, long after he should have gone home to lick his wounds and try to mend what has been broken.

 

            When the last shovel empties, Hux turns and walks away. He does not look back. The parts of him that loved are left behind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everlilies are an actual Star Wars flower, but I based them on [black pearl lilies](http://farm8.static.flickr.com/7068/6886232197_b7dea74c11.jpg) which I only recently learned about.


	2. Once upon a Time II

**♛**

 

            It is still 12 ABY. When Maratelle Hux marries into the family, the trees are still unfurling the first buds of spring. She is a widow, her late husband an officer in the military, and her two sons are the strapping children Brendol Hux has always wanted.

 

            The thick layer of snow coating his mother’s grave is still thawing when they are wed, Hux diligently playing his part in the ceremony even as he hates everyone involved. He stands respectfully off to one side and is flanked by his new step siblings, both younger yet already dwarfing him in size. Izar, honey blonde with dark, cruel eyes, deliberately elbows his ribs every few minutes in an attempt to ward off his boredom.

 

            His instincts tell him to break the offending arm every time.

 

            It is a difficult urge to resist, but Hux knows that the punishment this will earn him is not worth it, not yet. Aside from this, he is the eldest now. The example he sets in these first few days will color their interactions for the rest of their lives. These children are spoiled brats with far too much pride, unbroken by the world and used to getting what they want without paying the price. They are new to the Hux family, ignorant of the Commandant’s teachings and strict way of life, and he must be patient with them. They will learn. It is only a matter of time.

 

            He tells himself this even as Izar glances over his head to lock eyes with Pleione, the other’s hazel eyes already shining with mischief. Both begin to barrage him with a variety of blows that become less and less subtle the longer he goes without responding. Hux grits his teeth against the assault and tenses, his spine and shoulders rigid, but continues to stare straight ahead with his head held high. It is annoying, yes, but he has suffered much worse too many times. He will not break now, not for this. They aren’t worth it. They don’t know their place. And long before he does, they will tire.

 

            The wedding concludes without incident, much to his step-brothers’ chagrin, but they are soon distracted by the prospect of sweets and wander off. Hux, only slightly more bruised than he was when he arrived, luxuriates in this small moment of peace. It cannot last, but he will enjoy it for as long as possible. It is disturbing to realize he will most likely chase these moments for the rest of his life.

 

            All too soon the reception draws to a close. It is late, and the brothers are tired. They lean against each other on the carriage ride home while Hux sits as far away from them as possible, his eyes narrowing in distaste every time a bump has him accidentally brushing Pleione’s thigh. When the carriage rolls to a stop by the gate he is already gliding to the ground before either of them have fully opened their eyes, eager to return to his own private space and try to forget that these two are going to be a permanent fixture from now on. Gravel crunches beneath his boots as he strides down the wide path leading up to the house. An increase in volume is the only warning he gets before he once again finds himself with a step-brother at either side.

 

            “Pleione,” Izar drawls, nudging Hux until he bumps against the other, “I’ve just realized something.”

 

            Pleione’s arm comes to rest over Hux’ shoulders, his hand squeezing tightly and leaving yet another bruise before passing him back to his brother. “Oh? Do tell.”

 

            “These clothes Armie’s wearing are nice, aren’t they? And with Armie being such a proud _prince_ ,” Izar catches him and pinches the fabric at his shoulder, leaning down to growl into Hux’ ear, “I’m sure he has a lot of nice things.”

 

            Hux is still wearing the sleek clothing he had been given for the ceremony. It is familiar to him, the style and cut that of the standard uniform he wears at the academy, but made from a material that slides against his skin and is so light it feels almost weightless. They are the nicest clothes he has ever owned. In the morning he will hand them to his father and never see them again.

 

            To his right Pleione grins and runs a hand through his auburn curls, slouching down to speak into his other ear. His hot breath fans across his skin and Hux’ lips tighten into a grim line. “Hm, that makes sense. How about it, _Armie_ ,” his hand comes down on his back hard enough to make him rock forward mid-stride. “Are you willing to share?”

 

            By this point they’ve made it inside and down the short hallway to his room. In the span of their brief conversation Hux has cycled from cold and wrathful to confused and wary, and now he finds that he is genuinely amused. They abruptly come to a stop and he fluidly turns on his heel, opening the door and gesturing inside with a bow and a mocking smile. “Oh, by all means, help yourselves.”

 

            The brothers eye him with suspicion that quickly turns to disbelief as they step inside, Hux bringing up the rear. Whatever they had been expecting, it is clearly not what they find. Spartan would be putting it mildly. His bedroom is just that, a room with a bed. Aside from that, furnishing is minimal: a plain wooden chair, a narrow wardrobe, a side table holding an unlit candle, a desk with a neat stack of tomes on military strategy and imperial history. The wardrobe’s doors are open, revealing neat rows of plain black uniforms while his single pair of boots are leaning against its side. Nothing here is personal or particularly ‘nice’. For all intents and purposes there is nothing for them to take.

 

            Hux remains by the door with his arms folded at his back and watches as Izar darts into the room and begins tearing into his things, Pleione trailing behind him. They grab his uniforms on their hangers and throw them to the ground. When this yields nothing they turn to his desk and pluck his books from its polished surface, shaking them from side to side while holding their spines and loosening only his bookmarks. When they roughly slam them down he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from scolding them. These books are expensive and on loan from the academy. They are old and fragile and if they should be damaged he will pay dearly for their crimes. When their attention shifts to his bed and they begin pulling at the sheets, it becomes clear that they have run out of ideas. He doesn’t bother to hide his smirk; as a child raised in military academies he had learned to store what little of value he had elsewhere a long time ago. They could tear the room apart and they still wouldn’t find anything. But it is entertaining to watch them try.

 

            It comes as a bit of a surprise when Pleione is the one to lose his temper and lash out at him, Hux having pegged Izar as the instigator of the two, but in the end it doesn’t matter as the result would’ve been the same. When he takes a wide swing at Hux’ face it’s almost comically easy for him to step out of the way. His critical eyes take in his step-brother’s shocked expression and categorize his many openings in a split second. In the end it is easiest to sweep his feet out from under him and plant a boot on the small of his back once he’s down, Pleione’s reckless attack leaving him off-balance. Hux’ arms remain folded as he peers down at his new brother with disdain.

 

            A shoulder slams into his side and he tumbles down, his face smashing into the doorframe. His vision goes red with pain and he can feel already tell that there will be bruising, an animalistic snarl tearing from the back of his throat. Hux’ head spins with vertigo and this is the only reason Izar is able to turn him onto his back and pin his wrists, his attractive face ugly with rage. “You little _bitch!_ ” Flecks of spittle fly from his mouth in a disgusting spray.

 

            Hux has had enough of these two idiots thinking that their size means they can push him around. Without warning he bucks his hips and rolls, reversing their positions and leaning down over Izar’s startled face to growl, “The only _bitch_ here is you.” His head is pulsing from the movement and a thin trickle of blood is running down from his nose. He watches with satisfaction as Izar flinches when a drop lands on his cheek.

 

            “What is the meaning of this?!”

 

            The heads of all three boys snap to the side at Lady Maratelle’s shrill screech. Her stern face is pinched up in outrage as she takes in the scene, drifting from the messy room to Pleione on the ground and finally coming to rest on Hux where he straddles Izar’s hips. In his shock Hux’ grip loosens just enough for Izar to slip free, and he shoves him off in a sudden scramble to his mother’s side. This time it’s his back taking the abuse, the curve of his spine hitting the floor and making him hiss.

 

            By the time he’s recovered enough to lean forward and face the door the Commandant has arrived. His gaze is heavy with disappointment, pinning Hux in place where he sits dirty and bleeding on the floor. Even now his heart aches at the thought of having failed him, and he hates it, hates that he reacts like a well-trained dog. He’s seen that look before, knows what sort of consequences it brings.

 

            If he’s lucky, the Commandant will leave the bruises in places he can cover with his clothes. If not, then it will be a long time before he’s allowed to go outside.

 

            As Hux is contemplating the severity of his beating, his step brothers have rushed forward to cling to their mother’s skirts, both talking at the same time in their rush to get themselves out of trouble. Hux licks the blood from his lips and presses his tongue against the backs of his teeth, watching them with a sneer. It’s a pathetic display from the boys who had been so eager to fight, yet he expects nothing less from them. They are entitled brats who do whatever they want and think that if they cry hard enough they can escape punishment. He looks forward to breaking them of that notion.

 

            The Commandant’s voice cuts through their blubbering with ease and grabs the attention of everyone in the room, sharp and tight with anger. “Armitage, get your things.”

 

            Staring up from the floor, Hux is speechless. He had not been prepared for this outcome, far beyond the realm of possibility. The blood drains from his face as he reaches the only conclusion available to him: The Commandant is kicking him out. He is going to lose everything. He gives a single hard blink and says, “...Sir?” in a voice much softer than he’d like.

 

            “Didn’t you hear me, boy? Start packing.”

 

            Under the watchful eyes of his family, new and old, Hux gathers his books and picks his clothes up from where they fell, his boots on top of the pile in his arms. Pleione and Izar have gone quiet and peer out at him with glittering eyes, distant curiosity blending seamlessly with childish malice. Their procession is silent as the Commandant leads them all back down the hallway and into the great room, finally stopping by the stairs to the basement. He points down them and Hux goes. No words are exchanged. Though grateful to still be living in this house, his eyes burn with unshed tears of anger. He was given a chance and he failed it. He wasn’t good enough, not for his father, not for himself.

 

            Hux is not a member of this family.

 

**♛**

 

            By 17 ABY, Hux has grown used to his new life. This doesn’t mean he isn’t bitter about it.

 

            Once he’d successfully gotten himself a bed, the basement wasn’t as bad as he had expected it to be. It was larger than his previous room, for one, and had a door in a back corner leading directly outside. It had been boarded up and was covered in cobwebs and dust, left to rot and likely forgotten, but once he had gotten it open he found he could come and go as he pleased. The family didn’t come down unless they needed him for something or if one of his brothers got particularly bored, at which point he could usually hear them coming down the steps and take his leave. There was a sturdy wooden desk set against the wall. After maneuvering a heavy bookshelf into the space next to it, he’d found that it was an acceptable place for studying and proceeded to get as many books as possible, spending his days reading. It was his only method of learning new things.

 

            His father had withdrawn him from the academy. Once his brothers had enrolled, there was no need for him to continue to be.

 

            The Commandant would not have him living in his house without contributing, even if his means of contribution had been taken from him unwillingly. Seemingly overnight Hux went from a future military genius to an indentured servant. Every morning he woke before dawn and spent the day on various household duties, drawing water from their well and carrying it back in splintery buckets, tending to the house’s many fireplaces, washing all of the clothes and doing all of the dishes, cooking elaborate meals that he wasn’t allowed to eat.

 

            And if that wasn’t enough, he still had to put up with his step-siblings. Ever since the Commandant had unofficially taken their side that first night, they had harassed him relentlessly. No matter what task he was performing, if they noticed him doing it then they were bound to swoop in, insult him to his face, and do whatever it took to sabotage him. The first time Hux had dared to lash out at them the Commandant had fractured his arm and bruised his ribs. He had known better than to try again.

 

            Nights in the basement are cold, regardless of the season. Something about the stone walls and ceilings seems to suck out all of the heat, drafts whistling in through gaps in the masonry and seeping through his blankets. His only consolation is the small fireplace near his bed, a bubble of warmth that can be hard to resist, but even this small pleasure has been tainted by his family. Izar had come down one night and caught him stirring the coals to build a flame, his hands and face smudged with soot where he had yet to wipe it away.

 

            His eyes had lit up with delight immediately, a wicked smile twisting his thin lips. “Well, look at you!” he laughed, “You’re covered in filth. Maybe we should start calling you Emberarmie, hmm? What do you think?” Hux grimaced up at him from the hearth, watching the firelight flicker and dance across the planes of his face, and saw him for what he was: a demon sent to torment him, a spiteful little imp determined to carve away at the joys in his life until it had taken everything. By the next morning the name had officially entered the family lexicon. It never fails to make him feel sick.

 

            On days when Hux manages to finish up early and doesn’t feel like staying inside, he visits his mother’s grave. It is quiet, and when he sits there, surrounded by the whispers of gently swaying pines and the scent of countless bouquets left to rot for the deceased, he feels that he is finally at peace. This is the one place he can go to be truly alone, even with the rare visitor; it is an unspoken rule of cemeteries that visiting the dead means you don’t acknowledge the living. He feels guilty for coming empty handed. He always does. But he cannot take that risk, cannot imagine what his brothers would say if they knew where he was going, if his _father_ ever learned where he’d gone. It is _his_ choice to come here and it is _none_ of their business. He watches as the hours pass and the sun sinks low in the sky, Parielle’s marble tombstone wreathed in the dying light, and he lets himself remember.

 

_Live, Armitage._

 

            And so he does, even if he hasn’t quite gotten around to thriving.

 

**♛**

 

            21 ABY is the year when things begin to change, for the better this time.

 

            The political tides are shifting and the Commandant’s career has taken off. There are whispers everywhere of the growing might of the First Order, of what this means for the citizens of the Outer Rim. They have been drawn here, united in the thirst for glory and then clinging to each other for survival. It has been so long since the empire had fallen, since the New Republic had driven them from their homes and provinces, and the scent of hope lingering in the air is almost unbearably sweet. Yet this talk clings to the shadows, hoarded in small circles and hidden from the light, because even now with the temptation right in front of them these people know better than to let themselves believe.

 

            Still, Hux cannot blame them for their optimism. His life has improved drastically since the Order’s rise, the Commandant being called away for meetings taking place far from home. Sometimes, when he gets truly lucky, his father will receive a letter calling for the attendance of his family and Hux will have the house to himself.

 

            Sadly, this is not one of those times.

 

            Hux stands off to the side in parade rest, his habits from his days in the academy stubbornly refusing to die. He thinks it would be a shame if they did. They spent so long drilling protocol into him that is more a part of him than anything. Without it, he isn’t sure who he would be.

 

            In direct contrast to his straightened back and level shoulders, his brothers lounge against the staircase’s banister with crossed legs and arms. The Commandant stands in the doorway with Lady Maratelle by his side, eyeing them with a small frown as he holds himself in a rigid parade rest as well, and for once father and son have more in common than the color of their hair and eyes.

 

            His voice is gruff and reproaching when he addresses them, and his frown deepens. “The council has decided to hold our meeting in Pelorum. As I will be away for longer than usual, I am willing to bring back _gifts_.” His upper lip curls with ridicule at the thought of rewarding them for doing nothing, but Hux had overheard Lady Maratelle insisting that he offer to make it up to their children who were sure to miss their father terribly. She made it clear that he was not to be included.

 

            Pleione speaks up from his spot on the stairs, half-lidded eyes conveying boredom. “I’d like something made with Cortosis, I don’t really care what.”

 

            When the Commandant gives a sharp nod and turns to Izar, he drawls with a flippant wave of his hand, “A couple Adegan crystals would be nice if you can find them. Please don’t go out of your way if you can avoid it.”

 

            For several seconds no one moves, and then the Commandant turns to face Hux to the surprise of every other person in the room. “And you, boy? What do you want?” If the look on his face is anything to go by, then he might have surprised himself.

 

            Hux stares his father dead in the eye and licks his suddenly too-dry lips. His fingers curl in his gloves, the quiet creak of leather lost to his sharp inhale. The one thing he wants is the one thing he shouldn’t ask for, but he cannot help himself.

 

            “An everlily.”

 

            The only outward sign of recognition is the slight widening of his eyes, but it is more than enough. The Commandant’s face balls up as though he tastes something sour and his eyes narrow into slits. _“Fine_ ,” he spits, and then he is turning on his heel and marching away.

 

            Hux watches him go and feels his heart pound in his chest. He would pay for that later, he’s sure of it, but it had been worth it to know that he hasn’t forgotten. It has been nine years since the funeral, but he will not let the memory of his mother die, not in the Commandant’s mind nor his. The remaining Huxes stare at him with confusion and he lets them. They cannot possibly understand the elation in his eyes, the smile on his lips. He has never cared less what they think.

 

**♛**

 

            The Commandant is gone for two weeks. For once, the wait is agonizing.

 

            When he strides into the house the room is virtually unchanged, as though they had all lingered in this foyer without daring to leave. The truth is that this has become the norm, a well-practiced routine, and like the best of actors they know to take their places for this scene long before the curtain begins to rise.

 

            In his arms the Commandant carries several parcels of varying sizes, wrapped in shimmering gold paper and held shut with satin ribbons in shades of brown and cream. Izar and Pleione immediately move to take them from his outstretched hands, but Hux remains where he stands and grits his teeth as the presents dwindle away to nothing. Of course his father hadn’t gotten him anything. He sees now that he was never going to, the mere suggestion just another trick, an opportunity for him to prove himself still weak. With the sound of his step-brothers’ enthusiastic praise fading behind him, he turns away and prepares for another night by the hearth in his cold little basement where soot will paint his hands and cheeks.

 

            “Armitage.”

 

            Hux freezes in place without thinking. The room has gone silent aside from the click of the Commandant’s heels where his boots meet stone. They stop behind him, just beyond his reach, and he carefully pivots on his feet.

 

            A tiny white flower sits in the palm of the Commandant’s hand. Its petals are bruised where they aren’t missing, the stem bent and torn where it had been ripped from its stalk, but the shining pearl of onyx in its center is still whole and gleaming. Hux knows that he stares at it for far too long, but is distracted by the sudden heat in his eyes and raw scrape of his throat. He has not seen an everlily in _years_ , not since… His mind closes the door on that thought before he can do something worth regretting.

 

            “It was growing by the side of the road, like a _weed_.” The Commandant sniffs with derision, his upper lip pulling back to flash strong white teeth. He holds it away from his body like a dirty thing as he thrusts it toward Hux almost violently. “I could never understand what your mother saw in these stars-blasted things.” When he still does not move, does not even speak, the Commandant’s patience wears thin. “Take it, boy!” he growls, and his fingers tighten dangerously.

 

            He moves forward on instinct, plucking the everlily from his palm and cradling it in his own. It sways delicately with the movement and he wants to keep it safe, to move it behind his back and hide it from the Commandant’s searing gaze. Instead he carefully folds his fingers over the flower and clears his throat, blinking furiously. “Thank you, father,” he says, and if his voice wavers slightly no mentions anything.

 

            He watches the Commandant’s ire ebb as quickly as it came, his father straightening his spine and shooting him a nod with the terms of their interaction satisfied. Hux is left where he stands when the Commandant turns to leave. His eyes numbly follow his retreating back as he pointedly ignores the prying looks he is given, and it is only when the room has emptied that he dares to peer through the gaps in his fingers at the treasure he’s received. It sits there in the cup of his hand, unchanging, and still he cannot believe it. A single everlily. Part of him had never expected to see one again.

 

            Without hesitation Hux makes for the stairs, his legs carrying him down to the basement with brisk, even strides. In seconds he is through the door and outside. The graveyard is vacant when he arrives, and he is grateful. Already the sun is falling and its last rays paint the darkening sky. In the fading light he carefully picks his way through the neat columns and rows, eyes running along the endless sea of sea of tombstones before landing on the one he came to find.

 

 _Parielle Atheca Hux_ is etched into white marble. As he crouches down he tugs off one of his gloves with his teeth and traces the letters with quiet reverence, his fingertips skimming cold stone and memorizing every bump and groove. He has done this countless times, every single visit since her funeral, and if he wanted to he could draw their perfect likeness with his eyes closed.

 

            Hux clears his throat and blinks, looking down to the lush grass beneath his feet. Biting his lip, he gingerly leans the everlily against her tombstone. Its petals are nearly the same shade of white. “Hello, mother. I’m sorry it’s taken this long, but father-” his breath hitches and he lifts a hand to scrub at the pricking sensation in the corners of his eyes, “-father has finally brought a flower for you.” When his hand lowers there is wetness on his fingers and cheeks, and Hux is struck dumb by the realization that he is crying.

 

            It is the breaking of a dam he hadn’t known existed, and he has to curl in on himself as his body rocks with ugly sobs. His heart is breaking the way it was meant to nine years ago and he is powerless to stop it, swept up in a flood of emotion that has been held at bay for too long, and he is drowning. It hurts, it aches, and he is alone with this overwhelming misery. Between his gasping breaths he apologizes over and over again with a need he cannot comprehend. The everlily is soaked in his tears. Its petals grow damp and begin to glisten, fat drops rolling off their edges and soaking into the ground.

 

            “Are you alright?”

 

            Hux whirls around and finds a woman, tall and blonde and wearing a man’s trousers and a shirt made of some metallic fabric that resembles chromium. She holds a bouquet of Malreaux roses in the crook of her arm and her head is tilted to one side.

 

            A hot flush of shame fills his cheeks and he is petrified by the knowledge that this stranger is seeing him weaker than he’s ever been before. Humiliation burns in his chest and drives him to his feet, hands tightly clenched at his sides as he bites out, “I am _fine_.”

 

            The woman’s expression does not change and she appraises him with cool eyes. There is a tension between them that builds the longer she stays quiet, and he fights the urge to fidget under her detached gaze like a restless child. It is almost a relief when she finally says in a low, measured voice, “You are lying to me.” When Hux goes to protest she talks over him with narrowed eyes. “My name is Phasma. I live there-” she points down a small path leading away from the cemetery, and for the first time Hux notices the vague outline of a house engulfed in the pines, “-with my wife, and we will be eating dinner when I arrive.” Phasma shifts the bouquet to her other arm and gives him a long, searching look. He cannot know what she finds, but it must be what she’s looking for because she placidly finishes with, “You can join us, if you like,” and starts walking without waiting for his reply.

 

            Hux dumbly stares after her, his body frozen in place. He has just been invited to dinner by a strange woman in a cemetery who caught him crying over a flower. There is no way of knowing who she is or what she wants and he would be a fool to accept.

 

            But he thinks about going back to a family that hates him, cooking a meal he cannot touch, trying to sleep in his cold, narrow bed, and makes a choice.

 

            When he catches up with Phasma, he carefully ignores the ghost of warmth slowly unfurling in his chest.

 

**♛**

 

            The Supreme Leader arrives in 29 ABY.

 

            The people flock to the streets to celebrate and catch a glimpse of his procession, a winding caravan that stretches down the main road farther than the eye can see. From the edge of town to the gates of the palace people amass in a writhing throng, cheering and giddy with joy as they welcome Snoke to Finalizer, the First Order’s capital now. Garlands of sweet-scented flowers are thrown toward the largest carriage, a massive black shape pulled by a team of giant stallions. Six Knights of Ren ride alongside it on horseback, their faces hidden from the crowd by elaborate helmets, and even from a distance one can tell that they are heavily armed and immensely powerful. While it is escorted by this veritable arsenal, the carriage itself is quite open. Snoke sits inside, tall and gaunt with beady eyes set deep inside the scarred folds of his skin, and smiles down at them all. Occasionally he will lift his hand in a facsimile of a wave, and the cheering reaches a crescendo. It is a celebration that will be remembered for years to come.

 

            It cannot end fast enough.

 

            Hux struggles to push forward through the mob, dodging yet another elbow flying toward him and bumping into yet _another_ remarkably tipsy girl in the process; this one is carrying a cup. Sighing as he gains a new stain on what _had_ been clean clothes, he tries desperately to catch sight of the storefront he is looking for so he can finally enter Phasma’s shop and get out of this mess.

 

            In the eight years since they met, Phasma has proven to be invaluable. She and Unamo are ex-military, intelligent, pragmatic, and largely unsociable. Her wife had accepted him into their home without question though, her faith in Phasma’s judgement unshakeable, and after a single meal together it had felt as if they’d known each other all along. It became habit to walk the path to their house, and almost seamlessly he had become a regular fixture in their home.

 

            Phasma was a capable fighter and appreciated having him for a partner once he had gotten used to sparring again. He hadn’t noticed at first, but from the elbow down her left arm was simply gone. She had lost it in battle years ago, causing her superiors to send her home. He couldn’t see why, because it made absolutely no difference. Phasma had made her prosthetic herself, durable and covered in chromium, and was not afraid to use it to her advantage; her punches were stronger, her blows heavier, and she could use her forearm to block. It was rare to see him win.

 

            Unamo had an eye for battle formations and a love of Imperial history, she and Hux spending hours at a time in her impressive library. Her collection of books and maps rivaled that of both academies he had attended, surpassing them in certain areas. He could pour over them for hours at a time and never grow bored. Unamo seemed pleased to have found someone with the same interests, their friendly debates branching out in ways that were novel and unexpected as they fought to gain the upper hand. Together, she and Phasma challenged him in ways that he had been aching for and their household became his sanctuary, a blissful reprieve from the abuse he faced at home.

 

            The Commandant’s iron grip on his son was strong, and he refused to let go. Hux had reached adulthood and still he would not relent, confining him to the basement and assigning him chores better suited to their servants. Their family’s status had risen as the First Order grew in power and now they had a full staff to take care of their needs, but even then Hux was not free. Izar and Pleione were insufferable, ignoring their personal attendants in favor of forcing him to do menial work. Any time Hux broached the subject of moving out, the Commandant would refuse to allow it. He had no money, no source of income, and would be an embarrassment to the family name. When he tried to seek out employment he was punished for shirking his household duties. It was absolutely infuriating, and yet completely inescapable. He could not afford to live on his own and had no skills to fall back on.

 

            This is where Phasma had saved him yet again. After being discharged for her injury, Phasma had turned to one of her hobbies for a source of income. She was a skilled metalworker, as evidenced by her arm, and before long she had opened a shop in town offering repairs for a vast number of items. Hux has always had a mind for mechanics, and when she caught him tinkering with some spare parts she decided to put him to use and offered him a job. Under her tutelage he had come along in his own right, his precise hands and meticulous eye for detail making him suited to work on fragile items that needed a delicate touch. He was never happier than when he was creating something, molding it and bringing it to life with his own two hands, and when he wasn’t working for a client he was working for himself. The shop was yet another haven where he found himself at peace. It was perfect.

 

            When he could reach it.

 

            The crowd pushes against him in waves, its flow and rhythm heading in the complete opposite direction of the place he wants to go. The undulation of thousands sweeps him along, his destination growing further and further from his grasp, and with every passing second he grows closer and closer to screaming. His frustration reaches its peak when one final shove has him somehow pressed into the inner wall of the chaotic mass, directly facing the main street and the stars-blasted source of it all.

 

            The Supreme Leader’s carriage is right in front of him. Hux watches him raise a gnarled hand with a wince and nearly goes deaf from the resulting cacophony. He scowls and covers his ears, being jostled on all sides by excited boors who had no concept of personal space, and decides he’s had enough.

 

            He roughly jabs his elbow into someone’s side and yells, “ _Move_.” They cannot hear him, but his meaning is clear and they scramble to obey. Slowly but surely he opens a gap in the row of people behind him and is nearly back inside when his hair suddenly stands on end. There is a prickling at the base of his neck and he _knows_ that someone is watching him, can _feel_ their gaze caress his skin. He turns on instinct and finds himself staring straight into Snoke’s carriage.

 

            Inside is a man with dark eyes and a concentrated frown. He sits to the Supreme Leader’s right, young, yet tall and broad in his dark robes, and Hux doesn’t understand how he could’ve missed him. When their eyes lock he expects the man to look away, but instead his stare grows more intense. Time slows and the moment stretches between them; one second. Two. Three. A tingle runs down his spine like a jolt of electricity when he breathes in, and it is…

 

            Annoying.

 

            The world snaps back into focus and breaks him from the trance he had unknowingly entered. Hux scowls at the man before he merges with the crowd once again, the strange feeling gradually fading with distance. He does not know what just happened. He does not know who he saw, and he does not know of their importance. But he knows that he does not want to see them again.

 

            Behind him, the man in the carriage pouts at the thought.

 

**♛**

 

            It is 30 ABY when Snoke holds the first Masquerade Ball.

 

            The announcement comes apropos of nothing, and the citizens of Finalizer are caught off guard. News is carried in whispers that spread throughout the land. Skeptics turn away the rumors even now, because surely this cannot happen, surely it is too good to be true. This sort of thing simply isn’t _done_ , not in the First Order, and yet…

 

            For three nights, anyone and everyone will be allowed inside the palace. They will dance in beautiful clothes, drink as much wine as they please, and consume a feast in the same hall as their king. Young or old, rich or poor, beautiful or beastly, all are to be cast aside in favor of partaking in a night of luxury. The only requirement is that you hide your face. After all, the guest of honor will certainly be hiding his.

 

            The Master of the Knights of Ren seeks a spouse.

 

            The kingdom shudders to imagine what kind of person a man like that could need.

 

**♛**

 

            The year is 34 ABY.

 

            There have been three Masquerade Balls, and the fourth approaches faster with every passing day. An untold number of people have poured in through the castle gates, and true to their word, no one has ever been turned away and no one ever will. It has made no difference. No matter their looks, their cleverness, the tricks that they bring, none have been able to satisfy the First Order’s most powerful weapon; none have even come close to catching his heart.

 

            Hux does not care. He has never attended one of these Masquerades, and he never will if he can help it. To him, they are disgusting. Droves of sycophants flood the city, each one more insufferable than the last, and all for the sake of a man whose very _face_ is a mystery. He is the monster under the bed, the hanging sword of Damocles just waiting to fall on all of their heads. Stories of his violence are the only ones available, a shadowy menace that strikes fear into their enemies’ hearts, and yet they think he can meet his match at a _Ball_? The idea is as laughable as it is flawed, and so of _course_ the Masquerades fail to produce results. They are a pointless waste of time, money, and valuable First Order resources, and the mere thought of them has him fuming.

 

            A letter arrives in the Hux family’s mailbox when the Ball is one week out, thick, creamy cardstock painted with delicate swirls of black ink. It sits heavy in Hux’ hand and he wants nothing more than to feed it to the flames. It is addressed to his father, and the deep red wax that holds it closed bears the mark of a well-known signet ring. Inside, Snoke’s signature mars the paper like a brand.

  
            Regardless of his intentions, the fourth Masquerade Ball is the one Hux will attend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more I go back and edit this, the less I know how I feel about it. Feedback is greatly appreciated, especially in terms of your opinion on my characterization of Hux! Hopefully more will be coming soon.
> 
> I can't remember where, but I read that Kylo and Hux have known each other for five years prior to the movie, so that means that they would've met when Kylo was 24 and had just turned to the dark side. Personally, I find that pretty neat.
> 
> On a side note, Phasma's armor is actually plated with chromium from a yacht that was owned by Palpatine. She is incredible.
> 
> Pelorum, Cortosis, and Adegan crystals are also from the Star Wars universe.
> 
> Again, thanks for reading. You're the best :D


	3. A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to name all of the chapters after quotes from various cinderella stories.
> 
> This chapter was betaed by [DcDreamer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DcDreamer)! They made a lot of good suggestions and I am very grateful for their help :)
> 
> The next chapter is almost done and it should be up soon. Thanks for reading ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿

**♛**

 

            It is the height of summer and the midday sun beats down upon them all. The sky is a deep, vibrant blue and the sweltering heat makes every second spent outdoors unbearable, yet Hux and Phasma stare each other down from opposite sides of a narrow strip of lawn. Beads of sweat are rolling down their faces and have left damp patches on their loose-fitting clothes, threatening to fall from their brows and into their watchful eyes, but neither moves to wipe it away. They are coiled predators— patient, calm, and waiting for the other to break and launch the first strike.

 

            The sunlight glints off of Phasma’s arm as she aims a swift punch to his gut and Hux is forced to glide away, just barely beyond her reach. They dance through the garden on lithe, bare feet with subdued smiles of delight, each blow more punishing than the last, and hold casual conversation where one might expect threats of violence or harsh grunting.

 

            “Your footwork is a bit sloppy today,” Phasma idly observes, sending a vicious kick to his ribs. “Would you care to tell me why?”

 

            Hux grits his teeth as her shin connects with his hastily-lifted forearm, the force of the impact sliding him back over slick blades of grass. “Not particularly.” He darts to the side of her still extended leg and aims a sharp jab at her exposed side, but has to pull away at the last second when she pivots on her heel and tries to nail him with an uppercut from her chromium-plated arm.

 

            Heaving an affronted sigh, she follows his retreat and snakes forward to latch onto his wrist. “Hux, I am _trying_ to let you vent.” Phasma yanks him forward and straight onto her fist before politely stepping aside to give him room to double over and wheeze. “The least you can do is cooperate.” She glowers down at his hunched form with a marked lack of sympathy.

 

            When the air finally returns to his lungs Hux straightens with a grimace and rubs at his mouth. They separate and take up their previous positions, sharp eyes scanning over the other for exploitable vulnerabilities, and for several drawn out seconds it seems that he isn’t going to respond. A gentle breeze plays with the wispy strands of hair at his nape and the sun is gradually blotted out by a single strip of cloud, casting them in cool shadows of temporary relief. He rolls his freckled shoulders and studies Phasma’s relaxed form, watching her do the same, before relenting. “The Masquerade Ball is in six days.”

 

            Phasma lifts a single brow and begins to circle him with slow, even steps, Hux cautiously tracking her movement as she stalks behind his back and reappears at his side. “I fail to see how that is relevant to you. As far as I know, you have never shown an interest in attending.”

 

            Her blue eyes widen when he whips around without warning and slams the heel of his palm against her sternum, following through with a quick chop to her temple that is narrowly avoided. “And I never will.” They are suddenly swept into a whirlwind of motion as Hux goes on the offensive, a barrage of words punctuating every blow. “The Supreme Leader has seen fit to send a personal invitation to my family. The Commandant does not expect me to go, will not risk me being an _embarrassment_ ,” his lips pull back from his teeth in a low growl, “but for the next nine days my stepbrothers are going to be intolerable. It’s like they can think of nothing else! From the moment I wake up to the moment I go to sleep I am surrounded by reminders of this kriffing dance. When they aren’t staring at themselves in the mirror they are demanding that I draw them perfume-scented baths. When they aren’t bathing or primping they’re being fitted for elaborate costumes and squabbling over everything from the color of the fabric to the cut of their robes. Every day I have to listen to them chattering about how _they_ will be the ones to tame the mysterious, powerful, _handsome_ Lord Ren, _they_ will be the ones with the prettiest, most expensive clothes, _they_ will be the ones to get a happy ending and they will not _._ Shut _. Up!_ ” He gnashes his teeth and lunges at Phasma with a wordless shout.

 

            She calmly takes a single, deliberate step to the side. “Then you should go to the Ball.”

 

            He lurches to a stop in the empty space where she had been, turning to her with an incredulous, “ _What?_ ” and then his feet are swept from under him and the world spirals out of his control.

 

            His back hits the ground hard, most of the shock being absorbed by the springy grass he suddenly finds himself lying on. The air rushes from his lungs with a loud _whoosh_. He blinks up at the sky and tries not to move as he waits for his ragged breaths to slow. When a metallic hand enters his field of vision a few seconds later, he takes it and allows himself to be pulled to his feet, shooting Phasma’s smirking face his nastiest glare before muttering a petulant, “That’s cheating.”

 

            She doesn’t bother to respond, brushing the dirt from his back and elaborating on her previous point instead. “You should go. This could be an excellent opportunity for you to finally get out from under the Commandant’s thumb and live your own life.” She meets his eyes with determination and clasps his shoulder with a heavy palm. “If anyone deserves a happy ending it’s you.”

 

            Hux appreciates the sentiment and the warmth it creates deep in his chest, but he cannot help but scoff at the idea. “Phasma, I seriously doubt that _anyone_ could be happy in a marriage with Lord Ren.”

 

            Though harsh, no one could argue that his words were untrue. The man’s short temper and penchant for violence are his most defining traits, the raw power he is said to possess better suited to myth or legend. New rumors of his most recent outburst are spread nearly every day, each one causing more damage than the last. Servants in the palace are terrified of him and view him as a harbinger of death. They are right to, their lives forfeit at the slightest inconvenience, and every second spent serving their Lord is another step closer to an untimely demise. One would think that someone would come forward to protest, but no one, from the lowest of the low to the highest of the high, wanted to risk drawing his ire. Lord Ren could read minds, learn your darkest secrets and deepest desires, bend you to his will in seconds, and you would never even know. The only one with the power to control him is the Supreme Leader, but unless he does something _truly_ horrific he seems more than content to let his apprentice run wild.

 

            Hux personally views him as a tantrum-prone child, the First Order’s frightened whispers bold exaggerations of the truth born of their fears and fed by Lord Ren’s mysterious persona. While he could not deny his skill in combat— their victories against the New Republic’s forces making that impossible— he highly doubted that he could tear you apart with a thought and move things with his mind.

 

            Phasma rolled her eyes and headed into the garden, slowly making her way back to the house. “And I am not suggesting you try.” When Hux fell into step beside her she glanced over to him and continued thoughtfully, “You need someone in good standing with a great deal of money that you can easily control. Lord Ren only fits one of those requirements, two if you take ‘good standing’ to mean ‘a member of an influential family’. The Masquerade Balls are some of the only places where people from all walks of life can mingle in total anonymity, giving everyone access to everyone else. You are ruthless, ambitious, and charming.” Her lips tilted up to one side. “In the proper clothes, you would be a wolf among sheep.”

 

            By this point they had reached the beginning of the property, having wandered through neat beds of flowers where the old groundskeeper was carefully digging. Unamo, standing in parade rest and observing his actions with a keen eye, catches the tail end of their conversation and tips her head questioningly. Phasma is quick to oblige.

 

            “Hux is going to the Masquerade Ball.”

 

            Unamo is nodding her assent even as Hux sputters unintelligibly, Phasma stepping up to her wife and pressing a quick kiss to her well-defined cheek before wandering inside. He wants to protest, to say he has not and _will not_ agree, but Phasma’s points were valid and his mind is already scheming. _It_ would _be the perfect opportunity_ , he relents, and imagines a future where his life is his own and his actions are his to decide.

 

            As his shoulders slump in resignation, Unamo studies him with an appraising eye and a faint smile. “I believe we are in need of a tailor.”

 

**♛**

 

            The Masquerade Ball begins in two hours and Hux is seconds away from murdering his family.

 

            All day he has been the subject of derisive comments and relentless taunting, the worst offenders being those who demand his help the most. Izar and Pleione seem to have made it their personal mission to ensure that he is suffering. Their myriad of requests has ranged from the reasonable— cooking breakfast, drawing the water for their baths, fetching them their various accessories— to the ludicrous— combing out their hair, handing them their clothes, slipping on their shoes.

 

            Hux kneels on the floor in front of Pleione, reclining on the edge of his bed and looking down his nose like the spoiled brat he is, while Izar watches him tighten the buckles on his ridiculous pumps. Giving them a final tug, he straightens his back and rises to his feet with as neutral an expression as he can manage. This was his last task and now he is finally free to escape to the privacy of his room. He exhales slowly and paints his face with a false smile. “If that is all, then I’ll be taking my leave…” Turning on his heel, he escapes into the hallway without waiting around for them to come up with yet another way to waste his time.

 

            It is unfortunate and yet entirely unsurprising when they follow him out, taking up their familiar perches at either side. Izar drapes his arm across his shoulders and ducks his head, his heels giving him an unusual advantage in height, and sneers, “Oh, don’t be leaving us just yet. Even for _you_ it would be too pitiful to disappear without saying goodbye, don’t you think?”

 

            Pleione laughs and leans in to wrap an arm around his waist, the bulky rings on his fingers flashing even in the dwindling evening light. “Emberarmie would _never_ do that! Of _course_ he’s going to see us off to the Masquerade; it’s his last chance to beg mommy and daddy to let him come along.” His other hand comes up to pinch at his cheek and tugs painfully, his brightly painted nails digging into his flesh in a way that promises to leave marks. “Now that I think about it, he wouldn’t even need a mask. We could just ask father to beat him black and green. Wouldn’t you like that, Emberarmie? If you want we can even help you convince them. All you have to say is please.”

 

            Hux resists the urge to bat his hand away and imagines bending each of his fingers back until he hears them break. It is incredibly satisfying, but it is even more satisfying to know that his idiot brothers still have no idea that he can get to the Ball on his own. His pleasantly vacant smile never waivers and he presses a hand to his heart, simpering, “Oh, don’t worry about _me_ , I’ll be fine here on my own. I’d be more worried about yourselves. You’re facing some stiff competition from what I’ve heard.”

 

            Immediately their mirthful expressions go sour and they drop their arms as though burned, Hux luxuriating in their silence all the way to the great room. The Commandant and Lady Maratelle are waiting for them, their eyes scanning his brothers and skipping over him entirely. When he is satisfied with their state of dress, the Commandant turns to Hux. “You are to perform your regular duties with the exception of preparing dinner. We will return no earlier than midnight. I expect to find you in bed and arrive to a clean house.” He and Lady Maratelle float out the door, their arms linked, but Pleione and Izar stay behind.

 

            They share a knowing smirk and Pleione’s face drops into an expression that is comically forlorn. He sniffles and pretends to wipe a tear from his eye. “Well, I guess this is goodbye Emberarmie. I’m sure you’ll miss us.”

 

            “But not _too_ terribly much,” Izar cuts in, his eyes gleaming with poorly concealed delight, “because we left a few messes behind. After all, we wouldn’t want you to get too bored while you’re stuck here all alone.”

 

            They burst into a fit of high-pitched giggles and follow after their parents, slamming the door behind them. Hux listens to the sound of them entering the family carriage and focuses on breathing through his nose: In, out. In, out. Finally he hears the wheels crunch over gravel and fade away, leaving him to an empty house. He waits for five minutes and then heads into the basement. Unamo and Phasma are waiting to mask his face and dress him in clothes better suited to a prince, and he’ll be damned if he lets them down.

 

**♛**

 

            The man in the mirror is not him, not anymore.

 

            He wears a black suit jacket covered in beautiful golden embroidery and dotted with tiny pearls, cinched at the waist by a broad, flat belt with a silver buckle. His waistcoat is black satin, its buttons silver as well, and while he is shirtless beneath it a white cravat covers the majority of the skin exposed at his chest. Black leather gloves cover his hands and accentuate slim, dainty fingers. There are diamond-shaped cutouts in the palms. The trousers are made of an unfamiliar fabric, clinging to his thighs yet bunching just below the knee where they are cuffed. His tights are smooth and the color of fresh cream, disappearing into his dark gray pants, and his shoes are two-inch high heels that lace up in the front with golden ribbon and wrap around the backs of his calves. Red hair is replaced with black; for once he appreciates the ease of coloring himself with ash and soot. On his face sits a mask of black feathers, with the exception of the small golden ones framing the gaps where his eyes peer through cat-like slits, and pointed black horns spiral upward at the sides in singular s-like curves.

 

            This man looks dangerous and important, all of the things that little Emberarmie is not.

  
            And when he is sent off in a gleaming carriage, wrapped in a luxurious fur coat, Hux lets himself believe for just a moment that he could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've actually drawn all of the outfits Hux and Kylo will be wearing! ~~Before I even started writing shhhh.~~ This first one is based loosely around this [outfit](http://www.vogue.com/fashion-shows/fall-2006-menswear/alexander-mcqueen/slideshow/collection#41) made by Alexander McQueen and the mask is based on [this](http://www.purecostumes.com/FM78412/minotaur-masquerade-mask.html).
> 
> My sketch can be found [here](http://sidera-mori.tumblr.com/post/160264891689/night-one-hux).


	4. It Feels like a Dream, Better Than a Dream... I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it, kids! We got Hux to the Ball! ヽ( •̩̩̩́ ▽ •̩̩̩̀ )ノ
> 
> Ok so in this universe I'm running with the theory that the Force affects temperature because it's a manipulation of energy but I am definitely not a scientist so I'm probably completely wrong.
> 
> Is this in character? Who knows ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> DcDreamer has officially become my beta for this story! They are a joy to work with and I'm incredibly glad that they're willing to put up with me :')

**♛**

 

            The night air is thick and humid where it kisses his skin and in the close confines of the carriage it is feverishly hot. Already Hux is questioning the decision to drape himself in the lavish fur-collared coat that rests on his shoulders, but Phasma and Unamo had insisted he wear it to the Ball; apparently the palace, similar to his room in the basement, plunges into frigid temperatures more often than not. For his sake Hux hopes that this will be the case. Sweat is already gathering at his brow and pooling in the small of his back, and he has barely moved aside from heading out to the carriage and climbing inside.

 

            He feels it when they finally arrive, clattering hoofbeats being exchanged for the sound of snapping reigns and the coachman, Rodinon, ordering the horses to slow their trot. Parting the velvet curtains that cover the carriage’s nearest window, Hux finds himself watching menacing iron gates fall behind them as the rough cobblestone of the main street gives way to a smooth, paved road. The grounds themselves are massive and expand in all directions, their path flanked by towering oaks whose branches seem to reach up and claw at the sky, and they must traverse an astoundingly vast forest before they finally see an end to the trees.

 

            In front of him the Black Castle materializes and separates itself from the night, its front dotted with windows that glow and shimmer like stars. Pale moonlight silhouettes jutting spires where they pierce the air, their number too many to count, and spills down into an open courtyard that houses a tiered fountain wider than a washing basin at its narrowest point. All around them massive animals appear frozen in various states of motion in the yard. Upon closer inspection they reveal themselves to be topiary masterpieces, sprawling hedges tamed and trimmed into shapes so perfect that at any moment it seems they might spring to life. A broad marble staircase leads to the entrance and is perilously suspended over the castle’s deep moat. The Ball has only just begun and yet already people of every size, shape, and color are streaming over it, a sea of masked strangers in the finest clothes they own.

 

            Hux will be joining them soon enough.

 

            The carriage smoothly glides to a stop at the end of a long line that stretches to the first step and doubles back down the road, and Rodinon knocks lightly against the outer wall before sliding open a small panel in the front. “Mr. Hux,” he calls respectfully, the barest hint of frustration coloring his tone, “this line is barely moving and I can see passengers exiting the carriages in front of us. Would you like me to let you out here?”

 

            Making a quick decision, he hums, “That would be fine,” and the panel slides shut. Within seconds the door is opening to let in a gust of wind that smells of freshly-cut grass and moist earth. He steps down, careful not to snag his coat on anything as he goes, and takes a large breath of fresh air, holding it in his lungs before releasing it in a deep exhale. The first flutters of excitement spark low in his gut and he finds that he is looking forward to this more than he’d thought.

 

            Rodinon holds the door at his side, head lowered in a polite bow. “Sir, Lady Phasma and Lady Unamo have asked me to stay here and wait for your return. I’ll be stationed down the road and can take you back at any time.”

 

            The line has moved forward in the time it’s taken him to get out and the coachman climbs back up into the driver’s seat. Hux gives a thoughtful nod and a quiet, “Thank you,” and then he finds himself alone. With nothing left to hold him back he enters the flow of the crowd and lets it pull him up the staircase and inside. For a long time he is pushed through a labyrinth of twisting halls that run through the palace like immense veins and arteries, and when he emerges at its heart it is something of a surprise.

 

            Immediately he is confronted with the sheer scope of the ballroom, its lofty ceilings supported by black columns that are marbled with spiderwebs of white and gold. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling like strange night-blooming flowers and scatter beams of golden candlelight across the highly polished floor. The room itself is strangely concave in shape, staircases at either end leading down into a pit that boasts a colossal dancefloor already brimming with glittering fabrics and bustling skirts, yet easily capable of accommodating more. On one side of the room is a raised dais that hosts a fleet of musicians and their instruments, the other side housing a row of tables that are pushed against the wall and whose surfaces are filled to the point of overflowing with a staggering variety of refreshments.

 

            At the back of the room sits a hulking, elaborate set of thrones, one clearly larger than the other and set in the center while the other falls to its side. Both are occupied. There is a line leading up to them that wraps around the front of the dais to the left and continues up the stairs, and Hux is struck by the realization that it merges seamlessly with the one from the entrance. Every single person in attendance either has or will wait to be announced and given the chance to prostrate themselves before Supreme Leader Snoke and the Master of the Knights of Ren.

 

            Over two hours ago his parents and brothers left the house. Near the front of the line stands his family.

 

            Hux doesn’t hesitate to slip to the side and make his way down the stairs, garnering looks that range from vague confusion to complete outrage, but he finds he cannot bring himself to care. Every second spent in that line would be a waste of his valuable time and the clock is always ticking. His eyes flit over the crowd and he is drafting a plan of action before his heels touch the ground, categorizing the people in this room into groups based on their potential ability to satisfy his needs.

 

_Good standing. A great deal of money. Easy to control._

 

            What was it that Phasma had called him earlier? Ah, yes. A wolf among sheep.

 

**♛**

 

            Several hours pass and Hux quickly finds that his targets are so easy to manipulate that it’s almost disappointing. He mingles with the crowd and joins the large social circles that stand around and talk, carefully parsing out the details of individual lives and personalities even as he engages in idle gossip and pretends to be invested in their boring stories. Ten minutes in and he has already found six people who fit his criteria.

 

            Half an hour later, he has given up on both the First Order’s citizens and all of humanity.

 

            These halfwits are eager to give him everything he needs, about half the time doing so without him providing even the faintest encouragement. He charms them with his clever words, demure smiles, soft little laughs with the barest hint of too many teeth, and they fall all over themselves in their rush to woo him with their status and wealth. It is absolutely disgusting.

 

            Hux has figured out that while on the surface this Masquerade is held for Lord Ren it is actually used as a matchmaking service, the ones who actually wish to marry the knight being few and far between. None of the people he has spoken to have expected nor desired to spend more time with the guest of honor than absolutely necessary. He doesn’t blame them. While everyone’s inclination to find a partner is undoubtedly helpful, it also makes his current task that much more daunting. There are simply too many easy marks that fall within the parameters he sets. When two hours have gone by and he is surrounded on all sides by fawning suitors he decides enough is enough and begins sorting them from most to least bearable personality.

 

            And now, standing in a relatively quiet corner of the room that the candlelight brushes but cannot reach, Hux thinks that he may finally be ready to stop looking. The man he is talking to is gentle and timid, his round, boyish face framed by neatly slicked-back hair that is the same dark shade as his eyes. His mask is a plain slip of silver that hides a thin sliver of skin. From his reserved mannerisms and subconscious adherence to familiar protocol Hux has correctly concluded that he is an officer in the military, a Lieutenant as he helpfully provides. Dopheld Mitaka is smart, submissive, and incredibly eager to please. He is also completely enamored with him and his every word of praise brings a pink blush to his pale cheeks.

 

            Things are going incredibly well and Hux is feeling quite pleased with himself, but just before he can suggest that they leave the ballroom and get to know each other better in a place with a little more privacy, a rich, deep voice intonates, “Pardon me.”

 

            “Yes?” Hux turns with a frown that quickly becomes a look of appraisal as he takes in the stranger to his right. A black, ugly helmet conceals his face entirely. Four silver bands wrap around the shadowy slit where his eyes should be and come down in the front to meet a flat triangle of metal that covers his nose and mouth. Where its shiny black surface should be sleek, it is anything but: no matter where he looks he can find some sort of scratch or dent. His first thought is that it looks like an angular bucket, and it could not be less flattering.

 

            Ordinarily this would be more than enough to have him turning the man away instantly, but his eyes catch on the black fabric that stretches tightly across his broad shoulders and chest and like what they see. The same fabric splits down the middle where his thick torso ends and falls to either side, landing at what Hux would guess to be just below the knee, and beneath that is a flowing, gauzy robe that sweeps the ground. A high leather collar offers a tantalizing peek at smooth skin where it clasps in the front, the same material covering the tops of his shoulders before breaking off into three separate layers and fanning out. His large, well-defined biceps are accentuated by the horizontal ruffles that run along his sleeves and his hands disappear into black leather gloves whose backs are host to elaborate stitching. A rough cape with singed edges completes the look of a man as attractive as he is menacing.

 

            Needless to say, Hux is intrigued.

 

            Seeing that he’s gotten his attention, the man completely disregards Mitaka and dips into a graceful bow before straightening just enough to make what passes for eye contact. “Would you care to dance?” His gloved hand extends in offering.

 

            Ignoring Mitaka’s weak protest at his side, Hux turns on his heel to face the man and regards him with reluctant curiosity. After suffering hours’ worth of banal, mind-numbing conversation he has finally managed to find an acceptable partner, but if he said the man’s body wasn’t exactly his type he would be lying. He hesitates, internally deliberating, but in the end he slips his hand into the other’s. “If you’ll have me,” he acquiesces with a cordial bow of his own and feels the man’s grip tighten. As he’s escorted to the dancefloor he shoots Mitaka an apologetic smile as an afterthought.

 

            The center of the ballroom is uncomfortably crowded to the point of bursting, Hux having avoided it thus far for this exact reason, but the teeming mass of bodies parts with ease where his partner cuts through it like knife. They are able to find an opening in an impressively short amount of time and it’s his pleasant surprise that has him granting the other man permission to lead. A large hand comes to rest between his shoulder blades and he is whisked across the dancefloor in a waltz so smooth they seem to glide.

 

            Years of experience have him flowing through the steps without needing to think, and that’s without taking he and Phasma’s practice sessions into account; he had thought it silly at the time, but now he is grateful for her insistence that he assume the role of the follow several times. Phasma is taller than him by two inches, his partner of a similar height, and without his heels he would have to incline his head just a touch to be able to meet his eye. As it stands they are on even footing, at least on that front, and it is easy to let his body move to the melody.

 

            All night Hux has been freezing. It should be impossible in his thick fur coat and extensive layering, but the palace is even colder than he had been warned to expect and he had resigned himself to the sensation of goosebumps prickling his skin until the sun began to rise. As it turns out he had been wrong; his dance partner’s body is a furnace. They are only in contact where their gloved hands meet, yet heat pours into him from these singular points and rolls off of the other man’s front, engulfing him completely. After several hours of braving glacial temperatures he feels like he has found heaven and must resist the urge to melt into his arms, a reaction that would have never occurred to him otherwise.

 

            Hux is so focused on this luxurious warmth that the man’s words catch him off guard when he speaks, voice casual and light. “You’re a redhead, aren’t you?”

 

            His heart kicks in his chest and he chokes out a vexed, “I beg your pardon?” as he struggles not to panic. Having black hair is a crucial element of his disguise. _How did he know? Is there a break in the soot? How long has it been there? Why has no one_ said _anything?!_

 

            Something must give him away because his partner chuckles and gives his hand a light squeeze. “Relax,” he soothes, “it’s your lashes. They look beautiful in this light.” His head tips to the side and Hux can tell that he’s staring in apparent fascination.

 

            His heart rate slowly levels out and he feels the tension in his shoulders ease. Hux recognizes that he’s been paid a compliment, but he is more cross with himself than flattered. For someone so meticulous knowing he had overlooked such an obvious detail is incredibly aggravating, and even though he had meant no harm his partner’s words sting like a personal affront. Nevertheless, he plasters on the same genial smile he’s been wearing all night and replies, “Thank you for noticing. You’re too kind.”

 

            It is unexpected when his words fail to yield a positive response, the frown in the other man’s voice clear even through his helmet as he slowly shakes his head. “No, I can tell you’re displeased. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, but there’s no need to lie. You need to let me know when I’ve done something wrong so I can avoid doing it again.”

 

            “ _Oh_ ,” he breathes, giving a single hard blink. _Well, this is… different._ Up til now every single person has taken him at face value, believing his falsely pleasant words and actions without question and eagerly responding in kind. Half of him is offended by this man’s disregard for social norms but the other half is thrilled at the break in routine. Hux had already been attracted to the body, but now he sees an opportunity in the mind. His gaze on the other sharpens and it is safe to say his interest has been piqued. “...My apologies. From now on I’ll try be a bit more frank.” He allows his smile to take on its usual vicious edge for the first time since he’d arrived. “On that note, I confess that I’m quite curious: How did you know I was lying?”

 

            The other man hesitates, clearly gathering his thoughts, and Hux patiently waits for him to break the silence. For an unhurried moment they drift through their waltz in a beautiful spiral, neither focused on their steps but moving perfectly together all the same. The loose fabric of their clothing fans out behind them in an elegant arc and while it should be troubling the other dancers they have all miraculously decided to give them their space. It’s as though they are being avoided, and it is this thought that has Hux frowning and marginally slowing his pace.

 

            A quick glance at his surroundings reveals that they have somehow snagged the attention of every couple in their vicinity, their bodies stiff while their faces convey a complex emotion he is unable to comprehend. If he had to take a guess he would be tempted to call it fear. It makes no sense, but before he can begin to contemplate this his attention is brought back to the man in front of him.

 

            “The smile.” The words are hastily cobbled together and clumsy when they fall from his tongue, and from the rigid set of his spine it is clear that he hadn’t meant to say them yet.

 

            He waits, and when an explanation is not forthcoming, coaxes, “The smile…?” feeling as though he is suddenly dealing with an awkward child.

 

            Something in the man’s body language is uncomfortable, the angle of his helmet shifting to land somewhere to the left of his eyes. “It was too… cold. Nothing about it seemed happy and it didn’t reach your eyes.”

 

            Hux hums in response, unsure of how he feels about that. He knows exactly what his false smiles look like and they are anything _but_ cold. As a child he had practiced all of his expressions in the mirror, never knowing when he might be required to beam with joy or burst into tears, and had put most of his effort into making his smile look sincere. There is nothing so endearing and disarming as a smile full of warmth, and to be told he has failed in this vital aspect is as off putting as it is unbelievable. This combined with the fact that the man’s body language is dripping with guilt has his hackles rising. Something here is off, but he can’t seem to put his finger on it now matter how hard he tries. His instincts scream for him to get away; Hux is happy to oblige.

 

            The song comes to an end none too soon, and he drops his arms just a split second too quickly for it to read as natural. “Thank you for this dance, and I bid you a good night,” he says with a low bow, not wanting to linger but unwilling to come across as rude. A glance to the corner reveals that Mitaka had actually waited for him, the distress on his open face visible even from this distance, and Hux comes to the conclusion that he must be jealous. _Good_. He can use that, and is already making plans as he turns away.

 

            A hand shoots out to grab his wrist. “Wait!”

 

            Against his better judgement, Hux slowly comes around to face him again, one of his brows rising beneath his mask in a pointless display of incredulity. “Did you _need_ something?”

 

            Suddenly sounding far less sure of himself than before, the man almost bashfully stutters, “I- You’re- Could we-” with increasing frustration, finally heaving a low sigh and settling on, “...May I have this dance?”

 

            The people around them are now outright staring, whatever emotions their faces had previously held lost to a wave of uneasy astonishment. Hux assumes that this is because of the other’s actions and uncomfortably tight grip on his arm. He himself is in a similar state of disbelief. Before, the man’s lack of social graces had been a refreshing change, but this sort of thing simply is not done. One does not request a dance by tethering their intended partner at the wrist. By all accounts, he ought to be delivering a firm, decisive ‘no’ and heading back to his intended target.

 

            The music starts up with a quavering violin, and for reasons he cannot wholly understand he finds himself agreeing even as he knows he shouldn’t. “Alright.” Almost instantly he is swept back into his partner’s heated embrace and their twirling begins anew.

 

            Perhaps it is the swiftness with which they began, or perhaps it is something far more personal, but they end up dancing much closer together than they were before. Where the man’s hand _had_ rested high on his back, it now settles lightly at his waist, long fingers pressing fire into his skin. He would like to say that its presence is unwelcome, but as his own hand is firmly curled around the other’s shoulder he doubts that any protest would be believed.

 

            Those around them are still staring, mysteriously enough, but it is far easier to ignore them when he has something else to concentrate on. The man’s back is tense beneath his cupped palm. It is curious as he was the one to request another dance, but the cause becomes clear when he grows more and more relaxed the longer they go without addressing their new proximity. His partner shifts to look at him, and while he will admit that it is easy to hear his hushed murmur, Hux truly doubts that their faces should be this close. “Thank you.”

 

            His eyes are trained on a spot just above the man’s shoulder. They do not move even as he questions, “What for?”

 

            “For giving me another chance.”

 

            Their positions reverse, Hux staring at the other’s helmet as it points toward anything but him. For a drawn out second he is quiet, and when he speaks it is considering and slow. “...It’s fine. I don’t mind at all.”

 

            He feels the other’s gaze shift. “Lying,” he reminds in a terribly soft voice, and Hux can almost see his tiny grin.

 

            Just like that the tension breaks, gone as quickly as it came. They spend the rest of their dance pressed together in companionable silence, Hux relishing the resulting warmth, and it is easy to forget the awkward note the last dance had ended on. This time, when the music fades he pulls away slowly with— if he’s being honest with himself— more than a hint of reluctance. His partner must feel the same because his hand lingers at his waist for far longer than it should, and Hux is surprised to find that he misses its weight when it’s finally gone.

 

            The space between them is small, scarcely more than a foot, but it may as well be a chasm for how quickly it syphons what little heat he had managed to retain. Within seconds he is as cold as he had been prior to their meeting and cannot help but mourn the loss. He stares across the gap with a displeased frown, arms folding themselves behind his back as he stifles his instinctive desire to reclaim his newly vacated spot. It would be far too easy to step back into the other man’s embrace, to let himself be guided through another graceful rendition of the waltz, but while the temptation hangs in the air he knows he cannot afford to indulge.

 

            Already he has spent too much time on this distraction. For every second that he stands here another precious opportunity is lost, and while those seconds have been oddly enjoyable, they cannot compare to the pleasure he stands to gain upon achieving his goal. The reminder of his mission is like a splash of cool water on his face: pragmatic and refreshing, yes, but at the cost of a dream he doesn’t remember entering and hadn’t quite been prepared to leave.

 

            In the time it has taken him to strengthen his resolve the couples around them have subtly shifted to grant them a large, open circle of space, shamelessly watching them separate and whispering behind raised palms and delicate lace fans. Hux’s frown deepens, baffled by their repeatedly strange behavior. While it is true that he and his partner’s dance had been slightly non-conventional, it had been nowhere near as scandalous as their arched brows and judgmental stares would imply. Again his mind is telling him that he is missing something obvious, staring at an unsolved puzzle to which he holds the missing piece, but the more he tries to focus the hazier his thoughts become. Sheer obstinacy has him chasing their vague outlines, yet no matter how hard he attempts to bring them forward they slip through his grasp and into the deepest recesses of his mind. This does not happen, not to him, and the longer it goes unresolved the more he is flooded with unease. Eventually he is forced to push the issue to the back of his mind to be considered at another, more convenient time, and when he tunes back in to his surroundings he is startled to find that his partner’s stare has grown intense.

 

            Hux clears his throat and is amused to see the man visibly jump, apparently having also been lost in thought. “Thank you,” he says, descending into yet another bow, “for leading me in this dance. I wish you and any future partners the best of luck.”

 

            When he straightens out he sees that the other’s shoulders have tensed once more, his fists clenching and unclenching repeatedly at his sides. He expects it when the man cautiously begins, “I-” but the voice that interrupts him is a surprise.

 

            “If-” Mitaka stumbles over his words for a moment when Hux turns to face him, his back to the man who had been speaking. “-If I may, I would like to cut in?” When Hux tips his head to the side at the questioning lilt to his tone, his eyes widen and he more firmly repeats, “I would like to cut in.”

 

            Hux can suddenly feel the other man’s presence at his back and knows he must be looming. “You may not,” he counters, the deep voice at his ear sending a shiver down his spine. “We are still talking. I _highly_ recommend that you leave.”

 

            Mitaka, in a move that Hux would describe as highly uncharacteristic, does not take his advice even as he wilts before his eyes. He must have liked him even more than he had previously thought. Hux must admit, he’s mildly impressed. His dance partner cut an imposing figure even when he was being amicable and polite; now, he most likely resembles nothing so much as an agitated beast. Seeing a chance to endear himself further, he rewards Mitaka’s courage and simultaneously slights his previous partner, resenting the way he had spoken for them both without asking. “ _Actually_ , I believe our conversation had just come to an end. If you wish to dance with me I would not be opposed.”

 

            The room is plunged into silence, or at least it is in their vicinity. All eyes are on him, the atmosphere one of total, absolute terror, and he can somehow feel the man at his back go from shocked to fuming. In an inexplicable phenomenon the very air around them begins to warm, and the tension in the room is suffocating. No one moves. He is not sure if anyone even breathes.

 

            Hux is more confused now than ever before. They disapprove when he is dancing and disapprove when he stops. It doesn’t make _sense_ , and he is so close to figuring this out, the solution just barely outside his reach, when Mitaka’s face lights up as he extends a hand. “Then-”

 

            “He is _my_ dance partner!” the man proceeds to _roar_ , the sound echoing all around them at a volume so unnaturally loud that it actually manages to rattle the chandeliers on the high ceiling. Hux covers his ears and feels them ring, his shout of pained dismay being joined by those of nearly everyone in attendance. When they finally stop he lowers his hands and stares at the man in astonishment, his furious panting the only sound in the entire room.

 

            At his side, Mitaka is trembling with frightened tears gathering at the corners of his wide, glistening eyes. He swallows nervously and his voice shakes so hard that it is nearly indecipherable, but he manages to whimper, “O-of course, Lord R-Ren. My ap-pologies.” Mitaka slumps and flees to the corner he had previously occupied, looking remarkably like a kicked puppy.

 

_Lord Ren._

 

            Several things snap into place at once, the rest filling in gradually. The helmet. The robes. The heat. The knowledge of his true thoughts and feelings, the staring of the crowd, Mitaka’s distress, the temper tantrum, the _fog in his mind_ that had kept him from figuring all of this out for _himself_. His rapid shift in perspective is almost dizzying, and there is nothing he can do about it. He has been dancing with a ticking time bomb all night. If Mitaka hadn’t interrupted, he would have danced with him again _willingly_.

 

            Lord Ren suddenly thrusts an arm toward the dais and the musicians begin to play, everyone quickly launching into motion in a desperate bid to fade into the background and pretend they haven’t been listening. Hux finds himself pulled back in, this time being held at a respectful distance, and they retrace their previous steps. Though no less poised than before this time their frames are undeniably stiff, the heat caught in the space between their bodies stifling. Gone is the man who had bashfully struggled to ask for his hand, the Lord Ren before him an entirely different being. This man is a blazing inferno— destructive, powerful, and nearly impossible to control. Looking at him now, in his flowing black robes and battle-worn helmet, Hux almost can’t believe he didn’t make the connection.

 

            Almost.

 

            “Lord Ren,” he says, voice incredibly cold for someone so angry, “I don’t believe we’ve been properly acquainted. Granted, one would think I might easily assume your identity, but for some reason I’ve found myself unable to do so all night. I haven’t the _faintest_ idea why,” he finishes with a glare toward the eye slit across from him that he knows to be particularly cutting.

 

            Impossibly, Lord Ren manages to stiffen further, the large hand at his back bunching up the fabric of his coat. “ _Really?_ ” he snarks, that one insolent word practically dripping with sarcasm, “And here I’d thought you might be intelligent. This is such a shame, especially when you remember that I’ve warned you _twice_ about lying.”

 

            His head whips to the side faster than he would’ve thought possible. “ _Excuse me?!_ ” he seethes, baring his teeth on instinct. Already his face is beginning to glow, wrathful heat pooling beneath his skin and burning in his narrowed eyes.

 

            Lord Ren doesn’t bother to respond, but his silence broadcasts malicious amusement through some unknown quality. Being ignored is somehow even _more_ infuriating and all of Hux yearns to remove his glove and strike through that stupid helmet and into the meat of his cheek. A thousand scathing insults gather on his tongue and he desperately longs to use each and every one of them, but instead they are swallowed down and left to simmer low in his gut. _Patience_. _Control yourself._ He cannot afford to lose his temper, not with the Force user so close, so he slowly closes his eyes and holds his breath, exhaling on a mental count of three.

 

            So, Lord Ren has decided to act like an overgrown child? Fine. Hux has heard the rumors, and now that he knows what to expect this should be easy. He’s been dealing with spoiled brats for the last twenty-two years. If it means successfully escaping unharmed, then he can play the part of the reasonable adult for one more night. He smiles, relishing in the act of catching the knight off guard, and pleasantly says, “Fair enough,” with a casual shrug.

 

            Across from him Lord Ren is now giving him his full attention, some of his explosive anger falling from his shoulders in the wake of guarded curiosity. “...What are you doing?”

 

            “Hmm?”

 

            “Just now,” he says impatiently, going to make a sweeping gesture of irritation only to be brought up short by their interlocked hands, “you were furious, close to _hitting_ me, and suddenly all of it just… vanished.” He sounds frustrated, to Hux’s delight, and he makes a mental note to keep a tighter hold on his emotions in the future. “So, what. Are. You. _Doing_. I’ve just insulted you to your face, and now you’re trying to, what, pacify me?”

 

            Hux rolls his eyes and scoffs. “I am _trying_ to be polite, though for you that might be a foreign concept. This is a formal event. You can be as standoffish as you like, but that doesn’t mean I am going to do the same.”

 

            Lord Ren has gone quiet, the last dregs of his rage disappearing, and it is almost like they’ve gone back to the beginning as they waltz in easy silence. With both of their frames losing their tension they have drifted closer once again, and where the heat between them had previously grown uncomfortable it now settles in a range just shy of soothing. Their bubble of personal space remains unbroken, those around them doing everything in their power to go unnoticed, and it’s… tolerable, welcome even. Hux is amazed to find that this situation is somewhat agreeable, even with his present company, and cautiously allows himself to unwind a bit.

 

            Naturally Lord Ren has to ruin the moment, though he does so with far less chaos than one might expect. “You’re right.”

 

            Blue eyes flit up to the helmet’s slit, and Hux cannot help the suspicion that colors his tone. “...About what?”

 

            “We haven’t been properly acquainted,” he answers haltingly, something uncertain in his words where they should be straightforward. “My name is Kylo and I’m the Master of the Knights of Ren.” Lord Ren stares at him expectantly, and internally Hux begins to panic.

 

            Thus far when giving out his name he has been highly selective, ensuring as few people hear it as possible. Somewhere in this room his family mingles with those they deem worthy, and while it is highly unlikely that anyone would point it out, he cannot risk someone noticing that they share a last name. Hux does not go by his first name. Not anymore. As far as he’s concerned it is no longer a part of him, buried in the same grave as his mother. But he remembers a letter with a red wax seal, remembers that the Supreme Leader was the one to reach out to his father, Commandant Brendol Hux, remembers that the man across from him is Snoke’s apprentice, and sighs, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Armitage.” He both cannot and will not say more.

 

            If Lord Ren hears the finality in his tone, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead he murmurs, “Armitage…” as though testing how it rolls off his tongue. Hux watches with mixed feelings, bitterness being the one to come out on top. He has not been called that by anyone but his father since he was twelve, his stepbrothers using some variation of Armie when they spoke of him at all. It simultaneously means nothing and everything, its significance indescribable, and yet he has given it away at a moment’s notice without a second thought.

 

            Suddenly he is drawn from his contemplation by the realization that he recognizes this part of the song. He hadn’t noticed before, too caught up in the revelation that the Master of the Knights of Ren had been his dance partner all along, but this familiar waltz is one that had played when he practiced with Phasma. There isn’t much time left, and soon the music will end and their dance will come to a stop. Either his thoughts or his face must reflect this because Lord Ren’s hold grows firmer at once.

 

_Oh, no you don’t._

 

            Hux glowers at the knight and gives his side a hard pinch, earning a satisfying yelp as a result. “Just _what_ do you think you’re doing, Lord Ren?”

 

            His hand leaves Hux’s back to rub at the afflicted spot, and he missteps for the first time that night. “What was that for?! I’m not doing anything!” he complains, sounding far more wounded than he really should, and for a brief second he would never admit to Hux has to fight back a grin.

 

            “Well, I may not be _intelligent_ , my Lord,” he simpers in mockery of the earlier insult, batting his lashes at a flustered Lord Ren, “but I know a pattern when I see one.” His voice drops down and he warns, “At the end of this dance, you are going to stop, step back, and let go of my hand. This is not up for debate or further discussion.”

 

            “ _Why?_ ” Lord Ren questions, and his grip tightens in direct contrast with Hux’s demands. “So you can go find that mouse from earlier and dance with _him?_ He’s so boring, and you don’t even like him that much. Is whatever you want from him even worth it?”

 

            Any and all remaining mirth is gone, and he abruptly remembers why he had been waiting for this dance to end. Shooting the knight a glare of annoyance, he says, “As it just so happens, it _is_. But that is irrelevant; I did not come here with you, _Lord Ren_ , and who I dance with is none of your concern.” When it looks like he’s about to protest he continues, “You didn’t even ask permission for this dance; you just dragged me into it like a brute! However boring you may find Mitaka, at least _he_ isn’t rude.”

 

            Lord Ren sucks in a harsh breath behind his helmet as their movements grind to a stop, and Hux can tell he’s struck a nerve when the air between them starts to warm. “ _Rude?_ The rude one here is you. This Ball is held by _my_ Master in _my_ honor, and yet when you arrived you didn’t even spare us a glance! I _saw_ it,” he leans in with a hiss, “when you stepped out of line and wandered in. Do you really think yourself above us, Armitage, above everyone here? Or were you just that eager to find yourself some poor, timid rich man who’d be an easy fuck.”

 

            Hux reals back in shock, shame flooding his chest as his heart beats so fast it might burst. The words find their mark and dig in deep, and he can’t even argue against them because he had, hadn’t he? Thought himself better than them all, strolled in looking to find some unsuspecting fool and use them for all they were worth. There is a stinging heat in his eyes that can’t quite grow into tears, and he bites back, “I left the line because I didn’t _want_ to meet you! I _never_ did, because you’re like _this_ ,” he yanks his hand back from the other’s and flings it in a wide arc covering all of him. “So do us both a favor, okay? Leave me alone and try your luck with someone who actually did.”

 

            For a long moment Lord Ren stares at him in silence, and then he’s laughing. Hux watches him along with everyone else, and for the first time he understands the horror they had felt when he and Lord Ren had first joined them. Somehow he’s less worried for himself than the people around him, unsure of what the Knight will do next, and stories of his tantrums cannot compare to the volatility of the real thing.

 

            “Armitage, do you honestly believe that anyone in this room _wants_ to spend time with me?” Lord Ren chuckles. “Look around you! I haven’t even _done anything_ , and already they’re terrified!” He gestures outward in a broad sweep and people actually flinch. “You want me to find someone who enjoys my company but there’s no one like that here. Everyone who comes is here for themselves, too scared to even talk to me or give me a chance.” His arms drop down to hang loosely at his sides and he looks to the ground miserably. “Just like you.”

 

            “Are you an idiot?”

 

            Lord Ren’s head snaps up and his gaze locks onto him. Hux stares right back, fists clenched as he snarls with steadily increasing fury, “You ask me to dance with you, call me a liar, lie to me _yourself_ , manipulate my mind, scare a potential dance partner away, insult me to my face, tell me I’m an uppity whore, and you think I want to avoid you because I’m _afraid?!_ Lord Ren,” he sneers, “I am not afraid of you. I’m _disgusted._ ”

 

            On that note, the musicians cease to play and Hux takes a large backward step. Lord Ren is seemingly frozen in place, but when he realizes Hux is leaving he reaches for him yet again. “No, wait-”

 

            “Pardon me, my Lord, but may I have this dance?”

 

            Both stare at the man who has materialized from who knows where to cling to Lord Ren’s arm. Izar, true to form, completely ignores Hux in favor of shooting a sultry look at the eye slit of Lord Ren’s helmet, and to Hux’s immense displeasure the ridiculous image is practically seared into his retinas. He lingers just long enough to hear Lord Ren sputter out a confused, “What-” and then he is gone.

 

            It is too late to attempt to network, the others having ample opportunity to mark him as untouchable after the debacle with Mitaka, and the night has been ruined. The air is heavy with thick colognes and Hux is sick of feeling trapped in this overly crowded room. He exits the way he came and seeks out a quiet spot to recuperate, promising himself that once he’s managed to catch his breath he will find Rodinon and the carriage. Everything has ended in disaster.

  
            It’s time for Emberarmie to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hux: *arrives at the ball*  
> Kylo: *ariana grande's "[ _daydreamin'_](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=M0ZLpq-U1Cs)"*
> 
> All joking aside holy shit these two are wildly uncontrollable. Their first interaction has gone in a completely unexpected direction, and while they somehow still got where I wanted them to go in the end they fought me all the way and decided to get super emotional. Kylo randomly decided to be all timid at the start, but where they were supposed to try to have a polite conversation after the reveal they just??? Didn't????? I have no idea what these assholes are doing but they are out here Doing It
> 
> (Also, as indicated by the title there will in fact be a part two. The night is young and isn't finished with them yet)
> 
> Kylo's first outfit is based on a combination of [look eleven](http://www.vogue.co.uk/shows/autumn-winter-2010-ready-to-wear/gareth-pugh/collection/#wJ2ZQGyXD7y) in Gareth Pugh's Autumn/Winter collection and one of his other [works](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/477592735466218231/). His helmet is the same as usual.
> 
> Here's my [sketch](http://sidera-mori.tumblr.com/post/160361341979/night-one-kylo).


	5. It Feels like a Dream, Better Than a Dream... II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just gonna give an advance warning and say that I have no idea how the Force works and have decided to wing it. If my depiction is inaccurate, well, you can tell me but it probably won't make a difference at this point :|
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I've really enjoyed all the comments you guys have left! Getting feedback helps me hone my writing and know I'm on the right track, but it's also extremely encouraging :')

**♛**

 

            The room he finds himself in is small, dark, and quiet, the ballroom’s opposite in every way, and after braving such an emotionally taxing fiasco it is exactly what he needs. Moonlight streams in through a set of open doors leading out onto a private balcony and shafts of bright, silvery light paint soft shadows over everything. A light breeze stirs the tall silk curtains flanking the exit and carries in waves of thick humidity. Outside, the loud buzzing of insects continuously drones as they call to one another in a parody of song, broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl and the gentle sighs of the trees.

 

            Hux sits on the edge of a lavish queen-sized bed, his mask and gloves lying on the sheets while he cradles his head with bare hands.

            

            When he had first left the ballroom he had been absolutely livid, and his incessant rage had led him to wander deep into the bowels of the castle in his haste to get as far away as possible from Lord Ren. It had helped, somewhat, to stomp his way through the halls and skewer anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path with his most vicious glare, but eventually their numbers slowly dwindled away and he found himself alone.

 

            Coming to a sudden stop mid stride, he broke away from his consuming thoughts of wrath and discovered he had somehow wound up in a hall of portraits. Confused, he stared up at the nearest one of a woman with a sly smile wearing a bright red dress. Why had no one stopped him on the way there? This was quite obviously not a place where guests were meant to be and there would almost certainly be some sort of penalty if he were caught. A spike of irritation lanced through his brain and he pinched the bridge of his nose through his mask, recognizing the first signs of a mounting headache, and was greeted with a dull throb at the back of his skull.

 

            Turning sharply on his heel, he attempted to double back the way he came, but it soon became clear that he was totally and utterly lost. There was no one he could ask for help either, all having either fled in the face of his rage or simply never left, and he passed like a ghost through every corridor and hall. His annoyance over this latest misstep took the edge off his anger, oddly enough. At first he was distracted by his goal of finding the exit, but it soon became clear that his blind exploration would not yield results. The only sounds he could hear where the harsh clicks of his heels against the floor and the whisper-soft swishing of his coat. There was no one to pretend for, no one to seduce, no one to keep him on his guard—

 

            No one at all.

 

            All of his feverish energy dissipated like a puff of smoke and he deflated, stumbling in place as his shoulders sunk down into a tired slump. The weight of everything that had happened had finally caught up with him at the worst possible moment. He had publicly scorned the Master of the Knights of Ren in front of every important person he could ever hope to know before storming off to lick his wounds like an animal. And now he was somewhere in the palace, a lost child roaming through the halls, and all he wanted to do was put this catastrophic night behind him and go home. For the second time in over two decades Hux felt his cheeks grow damp with tears, silently trickling down and soaking into the fabric of his clothes. There were not many, but it was enough, and he could not remember the last time he’d felt so drained. He’d opened the very next door he’d passed and now he is here.

 

            Hux’s eyes are gritty, and where he rubs at them they hurt. This was a mistake. He never should’ve come here, shouldn’t have let Phasma and Unamo convince him, shouldn’t have let them dress him up, not when he’s such a failure. His father had been right. He is an _embarrassment_ , because this is who he is and this is what he does, and no matter how hard he tries he always manages to ruin everything his greedy little hands can touch. His father is _right_ and he will _never_ be able to successfully make it on his own. He is little Emberarmie, the family outcast living in the basement, and all he can do is burn.

 

            Ripping the coat from his shoulders, Hux presses it to his face and curls into a ball. His screams are muffled, nearly lost to its many wrinkles and folds, but he can hear them all the same and it makes him scream all the more. Several long, agonizing minutes pass before he is finally ready to lift his head and breathe. His neatly parted hair has slipped free of the style into which it had been combed and the back of his throat feels raw. Even after all of that his mood has barely improved, and with a final shout of frustration he hurls his coat against the wall.

 

            There is a knock at the door. “Hello?”

 

            Wide eyed, he lurches up from the bed and turns his back, slamming his black and gold mask onto his face. His disguise is the one thing he hasn’t managed to kriff up royally tonight and he would very much like to keep it that way. “My apologies,” he calls, turning to face the now-open door, “but I’ve gotten a bit lost, and-” he cuts himself off with a blink. “Oh.”

 

            Dopheld Mitaka stands across from him with a startled expression on his face that quickly morphs into one of concern. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He hesitates, one hand lingering on the door frame, and takes a tiny step forward. “I-I heard someone scream, and… Are you… alright?”

 

            Hux stares and then lets out a weak chuckle, heavily sitting back down on the bed. “Not really, no. I’ve just been in a shouting match with a Dark Lord and proceeded to get hopelessly lost, entered a random bedroom to scream into my coat, and been caught in the act just in time to realize that _now_ is the moment when I’m no longer alone.” His voice chooses to betray him and cracks horribly on the last word.

 

            “Oh,” he says softly, and gives Hux a nervous look. “Do you… want me to go?”

 

            “Actually I’d prefer it if you didn’t. You’re the first person I’ve seen in quite a while, and when I eventually leave I will have no idea where to go.”

 

            Mitaka nods and leaves his post by the door, cautiously inching closer and hovering by the bed until Hux takes pity on him and gestures for him to sit with an airy wave of his hand. He gingerly settles himself and glances over. “I’m sorry, for how things ended up with Lord Ren.”

 

            Hux snorts and feel his mouth stretch into a savagely bitter grin. “I’m not. The man was an ass to us both and deserved everything he got.”

 

            “Still, he was your dance partner and it’s a shame things went so poorly,” he frowns, genuinely upset. “You deserved better than that even if he didn’t.”

 

            Hux regards Mitaka with a cool fondness and tells him, “You know, you’re a kind man.” He watches his cheeks redden with a predictable blush, and thinks, _Far too kind to end up with someone like me._ Over the course of the night he has learned that Mitaka is gentle and caring and sweet, but that he cannot be what Hux needs, not really. Hux is broken, yes, but he neither wants nor needs fixing, and already he can tell that Mitaka wouldn’t be able to understand that sort of thing. Armitage could’ve been his match, but he is dead and gone. This world is cruel, even with all of its great and terrible beauty, and now there is only Hux. Hux, with his sharp edges and thirst for power; Hux, who cannot afford to let himself be viewed as weak.

 

            Mitaka rises from the bed and comes around to stand before him, tucking an arm behind his back as he dips into a low bow. He stares up from beneath his lashes and slowly reaches out to take Hux's hand, and when he makes no move to stop him Mitaka lifts it to his lips. “I know there isn’t any music, and this room is smaller than what we probably need, but would you like to dan-”

 

            His eyes bug out of his head and he begins to choke, hands scrabbling at his neck as he is lifted off his feet and pulled backwards through the air by absolutely nothing.

 

            “I’m _sorry_ , I didn’t mean to interrupt,” mocks Lord Ren from the door, his left arm extended as his hand slowly clenches into a loose fist. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough before.” He strolls into the room with feigned nonchalance, famous red saber in his right hand, before coming to a stop in front of a floating Mitaka and leaning in to growl, “You cannot dance with him.”

 

            Hux jumps to his feet, hands balled at his sides, and exclaims, “What are you doing?! Let him go!”

 

            Lord Ren does not move. Mitaka’s face is growing a terrible shade of purple and his protests grow weaker and weaker before they come to a stop, his body going slack.

 

            Rushing over to grab the offending arm, Hux tries to tug it away only to find that it is completely taut. It does not budge an inch even when he pulls with all his strength. “Lord Ren, stop! You’re going to kill him.” Nothing. “Lord Ren!” Mitaka’s eyes roll back in his head. “ _Kylo!_ ”

 

            Mitaka is unceremoniously dropped, hitting the floor in a mess of limbs and sprawling like a ragdoll. He sucks in a loud breath and curls onto his side where he begins to hack and cough. Hux stares down at him as he does, his hand still wrapped around Lord Ren’s forearm, and in the corner of his eye he can see a dark helmet pointed directly at his face. It takes an uncomfortably long time for Mitaka to start breathing normally again and struggle to his feet, wobbling with every step but eventually making it out the door. Although he wants to offer his assistance, he doesn’t quite dare to let go of Lord Ren’s arm while the other man is still in the room. It is only when the sound of Mitaka’s footsteps have completely faded away that he relaxes his grip.

 

            Lord Ren is still watching him. He starts to say something, but Hux cuts him off immediately with a harsh, “Don’t you dare. Not yet,” and stares off into some unknown point in the middle distance.

 

            The Force is real.

 

            The Force is _real_ , and even after everything that happened in the ballroom it takes this rash display of violence for it to finally sink in. All of the rumors, all of the legends, they’re all _true_ , and once again Hux is struck by the fact that he had been _dancing_ with this monster of a man. He should be terrified. He should be following Mitaka’s example and fleeing as quickly as possible. Instead, he releases Lord Ren’s arm and smacks his chest with the back of his ungloved hand.

 

            “You _idiot!_ You stars-blasted gods-forsaken _piece_ of _bantha shit!_ What were you thinking?! By the stars, you almost committed murder over a stupid kriffing dance!” When Lord Ren fails to respond, Hux snarls and whips around to pace the room, throwing up his hands. “What, are you just going to stand there? Say something!”

 

            “You aren’t afraid of me.” His voice is rife with disbelief, awestruck bordering on offended. “I nearly killed a man right in front of you and you’re- You’re _angry_.”

 

            “Are you _kidding_ me?” he gapes, turning to stare at him like he’s lost his mind. “That’s it? That’s what you’re choosing to focus on? Something that I already told you in the ballroom less than an hour ago?” Huffing out a breath through his nose, Hux sits back down on the bed and hides his face in his hands, already growing tired as he winds down to the end of his tirade. “What is _wrong_ with you?” he mutters darkly, the fight draining from his body as quickly as it appeared.

 

            There is a long pause, and then he feels a section of the mattress to his left sink beneath Lord Ren’s weight. His shoulders involuntarily tense at the perceived threat, but he doesn’t lift his head, preferring blindness to facing the continual source of his distress. If Lord Ren decides to lash out now, Hux thinks he would be tempted to let him; it would be a small mercy compared to going through this all over again.

 

            Time passes, slowly but surely, and the man at his side doesn’t move. The insects are still singing. The curtains still flutter in the wind. The moon is still full. It almost feels like the last ten minutes didn’t happen, and by some miracle he is once again alone, but there is tension in the air and a dip in the bed and his coat is still lying on the floor. It is a gradual transition, but the rigid set of his spine slowly loosens until his body sags into a slump, the tops of his knees supporting his bent elbows. A deep sigh creeps past his lips and leaves behind a hollow ache in the cavity beneath his ribs. He is still lost, still miserable, and still has to deal with Lord Ren. Bracing himself, he folds his hands in his lap and glances to the side.

 

            Lord Ren, surprisingly enough, is not looking at him. Instead his gaze falls on the heap of fur he’d discarded by the door. His head is tilted to one side as though he’s been presented with a puzzle, although just what he finds so fascinating about his coat Hux cannot begin to guess, and his body is shrouded in a fragile bubble of warmth. _Ah. That explains it_. Rolling his eyes, Hux crosses his legs and leans back, waiting for him to finish whatever it is he’s doing with the Force. Already the novelty of the idea is wearing off. He misses it, if only for the value of having never been exposed.

 

            The helmet turns to him without warning, and he is unprepared for Lord Ren’s confident declaration of, “You were crying earlier.”

 

            Hux gives him a flat look, wholly unamused. “Yes, great, thank you for pointing that out,” he snipes, “otherwise I never would have known. Any _other_ observations you’d like to share? Any more hidden tidbits of mystical wisdom?”

 

            Lord Ren stiffens and angles his body toward him, hand clenching around the hilt of his odd three-bladed sword, but remains calm. “Actually,” he says, dragging out his words, “I was going to ask you what was wrong.”

 

            Hux cannot take it. It’s too much, on top of _everything_ else, and he bursts into startled, uncontrollable laughter. It is a highly inappropriate response, and some distant part of him is amazed that the knight is even trying, but he simply cannot stop even as he wraps an arm around his aching gut and curls in over his hand.

 

            Beside him, Lord Ren stiffens further. “I fail to see what has you so entertained.”

 

            “ _Really?_ ” Hux gasps between slowly dying giggles, “You can’t think of a _single thing_ that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours that might bring me to tears? Did we attend the same Ball, or do you just have that bad of a memory?” His smile fades at his own reminder of the wreck that’s been made of the evening, and his next words are unexpectedly bitter. “Now that I think about it, why did you even bother asking? Can’t you just read my mind with the Force?”

 

            “That’s not-” Lord Ren huffs, clearly frustrated with both Hux and the situation as a whole. “It doesn’t work like that.”

 

            In spite of himself, Hux is intrigued. “Then how _does_ it work? I know it must be giving you _some_ measure of help with the way you’ve been reading me.”

 

            Staring at him with evident suspicion, Lord Ren hesitates as though waiting for him to go on the attack. When it becomes obvious that he is genuinely interested, however, he responds far more eagerly. “The Force is vaguer with its assistance than you’ve been led to believe. Unless someone is thinking particularly loudly, the most I’m going to receive are suggestions and scattered bursts of feelings-”

 

            “Is that why you were upset earlier, when my emotions shifted so rapidly?”

 

            Lord Ren starts at the interruption, which had been admittedly impolite, but Hux has always been unabashed in his curiosity. He stares at him expectantly, and is surprised when Lord Ren grows more animated, his involvement making him inexplicably pleased. “Yes, exactly! I could feel your rage, and feel it when it disappeared, but I had no idea _why_. It was even worse with you because your mind is so highly resistant to me. Ordinarily people’s surface thoughts are unguarded, but with you they’re almost impossible to read. It’s beyond frustrating.”

 

            “‘Almost’?” Hux repeats, arching a brow. “You say that I’m ‘resistant’, but what does that actually mean? Are you saying that some people’s minds are, what, _stronger_ than others?”

 

            Shrugging, Lord Ren peers down at his hands where they resettle his saber across his lap and seems to concentrate for a moment. “...Sort of? It’s possible to train yourself to resist a Force user even if you aren’t one, but it can be challenging, nearly impossible if you don’t notice what they’re doing.” He glances back up, his smirk carrying through into his voice. “You, on the other hand, are just dense when it comes to Force energy.”

 

            Hux frowns, but gracefully ignores the other’s attempt at slighting him in favor of asking, “In that case, how do you get information from them? I’ve heard several… _stories_ , about your various exploits in service of the First Order’s military. If I’m aware of your abilities then the Resistance certainly is, and I would imagine they would be quite invested in the aforementioned ‘training’.”

 

            “Oh, they are.” His voice is suddenly vicious, full of malevolent glee, and he continues, “When you resist a Force user’s entry into your thoughts, you’re basically throwing up a wall. The thickness depends on the strength of your will and how much training you’ve received, but just like any other wall, there are no guarantees; a strong Force User can crush through those sorts of defenses easily. When they do, it’s like breaking into the mind. They can sift through your every thought and memory, move them, replace them, create new ones, and make it so that you don’t even remember it happening. Unless the victim is another Force user there’s no way to kick them out.”

 

            Shuddering, Hux imagines being in the place of a captured Resistance soldier learning he’s to be interrogated by Kylo Ren. “That sounds quite… painful.”

 

            Lord Ren gives another shrug, unconcerned. “It is. But it doesn’t have to be.” Seeing that Hux’s gaze has sharpened, he explains, “The more you resist, the more force is required to break in, the more damage is caused, and vice versa. Neutral parties won’t feel anything if the Force user is skilled. On the other hand, Force users can be granted entry and allowed to share specific thoughts and feelings, but for obvious reasons it requires a lot of trust.”

 

            “And I suppose I must have been a neutral party,” Hux gripes with a heavy scowl, “when you manipulated my mind for your own amusement.”

 

            Sighing, Lord Ren ducks his head and lightly runs a gloved finger over the edge of his blade. “If it’s any consolation, it was incredibly difficult.”

 

            He stares at him incredulously, nearly incapable of believing that the man could have so casually missed his point. “You think I care about how _hard_ it was? Lord Ren, you pawed through my mind and erased your own kriffing identity for fun! Can you not see why I might find that upsetting?!”

 

            “It wasn’t for _fun_ ,” he protests, “I just— didn’t want to scare you off. Armitage, you don’t _understand_ .” He rises to his feet and stares down at him, giving a gesture of resentment with his free hand. “The others, they… They won’t even _look_ at me if they can avoid it. I can almost _hear_ their thoughts about me, can _feel_ it when they think about how terrible I am. They think I’m a monster, and they’re right, I am, but I’m still a _man_ .” Lord Ren begins pacing, agitation growing with every step, and Hux eyes him warily. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to have every single person in the kingdom bow before you, compliment you, _lie to your face,_ and then loudly think to themselves how glad they are that they’re not the one you want to marry? The only people willing to spend time with me are my Master and the other Knights of Ren, and even then only when necessary. I live like an outcast in my own home! Do you know how degrading that is?!”

 

            “Yes, quite well, actually.”

 

            Freezing in place, Lord Ren’s head whips around. Hux shrugs beneath his disbelieving gaze, satisfied that the knight isn’t about to have another tantrum, and waves a nonchalant hand. “You’re trying to paint yourself as some grief-stricken martyr, but I’m not buying it. You claim that you are misunderstood, that they all view you as more of a monster than a man, and that’s fair enough. What you seem to be forgetting, though, is that you’ve done nothing to prove them wrong. The enemy fears you because of your strength in battle, your bloodlust, and your ruthlessness. The citizens only hear about you through stories and rumors and fear you for the exact same reasons. The castle’s servants fear you because you _kill_ _them_. You are not the only one who is lonely, Lord Ren. But you are the only person I’ve ever met who seems to go out of his way to be.”

 

            The point of Lord Ren’s saber hits the ground with a tiny _clink_ , his arms going slack at his sides. Bewilderment pours off of him in waves as Hux also gets to his feet, ignoring him in favor of putting on his gloves and retrieving his coat where it had been flung to the ground. He brushes it off, careful to check it over for remaining debris, and drapes it over his shoulders.

 

            When he turns around his heart jolts, Lord Ren’s shadowy figure looming less than a foot away and silhouetted in pale moonlight. “I don’t understand you. Not your feelings, not your reactions, not the way you think. You are a cruel man, Armitage, and I hate it just as much as I enjoy your honesty.”

 

            Hux blinks and takes a cautious step back, an unrecognizable feeling blooming in his chest. It is entirely unwelcome. He doesn’t want to look at it, doesn’t want to think about it, and so he quietly murmurs, “Thank you, I think,” and turns to leave.

 

            The door closes.

 

            Pivoting on his heels, Hux shoots Lord Ren a murderous glare. “Oh, come on! What reason for this can there _possibly_ be?!”

 

            Though he looks a bit sheepish, Lord Ren holds his ground, his left arm raised in front of him. “I was hoping to escort you home.”

 

            “Pardon me?” Hux demands, voice choked with the first creeping tendril of panic. “No thank you, I am perfectly capable of getting back on my own. In fact, as my carriage driver is currently _waiting_ for me I should probably go.” He crosses to the door and pulls it open, but it yanks itself out of his hand and swings shut once more.

 

            “Please,” Lord Ren insists, drifting closer, “let me do at least this much. I know I’ve more or less ruined your night-”

 

            “Oh, so he admits it,” Hux mutters under his breath.

 

            “-but I want to make it up to you, and I know for a fact that my personal carriage is faster than the one you came in.” The door opens easily under _his_ hand, and he holds it for him with a small bow. “ _Please_ , Armitage.”

 

            A terrible idea comes to him, and he lets out a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “ _Fine_. But truth be told, I was terribly lost earlier and found this room purely by chance. You’ll have to lead the way.” Hux watches Lord Ren walk into the hall, keeping a tight lid on his anticipation lest it give him away, and when he’s all the way out he slams the door and locks it.

 

            On the other side, Lord Ren gives a shout of dismayed surprise. “Armitage?! What are you doing?!” By the time the knob begins to jiggle Hux is already across the room.

 

            “Sorry, Lord Ren, but I really must insist that you allow me to leave on my own.” Wasting no time, Hux pulls the sheets off the bed and takes down the curtains, quickly knotting them into a makeshift rope and testing it with a few sharp tugs. As he’s tying it to the balcony’s railing, he hears a loud crunch and turns to check on the door.

 

            A red blade has punched through the wood. As he watches it is withdrawn and jammed clean through again, splinters flying into the room.

 

 _Kriff_.

 

            Without a moment to lose he throws his leg over the banister and makes his descent. It is difficult, what with the mask and the coat and the heels, but he is making good time and is nearly on the ground when he hears it.

 

            “Lord Ren, what in gods’ names are you doing?!” Brendol Hux demands.

 

            “Armitage-”

  
            The rope slips through his hands and he hits the ground running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ????? Everything from the time Mitaka got choked to when Hux locks Kylo out was off-script. I have no idea what happened, Kylo just randomly started giving a lecture on the Force and Hux started listening. They were supposed to end the night with a huge argument but they caught Feelings and have foiled my plans yet again. 
> 
> For those of you who didn't read the Grimm Brothers' version, each night ends with her running from the prince, usually hiding, and getting away by the skin of her teeth. The first night she hides in a pigeon coup that gets cut open with an axe. I figured this was close enough. 
> 
> I've also got an incredibly rough summary of the original story that I wrote while very, very tired and can post that if anyone's interested in the heavily opinionated and text-talk filled cliff notes version.


	6. No Title nor Crown nor Castle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this chapter took way longer to write than it should've. Sorry about that :( The last few days have been really busy, and it definitely didn't help that I had writer's block for over a week. 
> 
> Kylo isn't in this one, but I've already started the next chapter so hopefully this time the wait won't be quite as long :') 
> 
> It's always great to hear what you guys think, and your comments are highly appreciated. Thanks for reading! You're all awesome!!!

**♛**

 

            It is well past midnight and the walk to Phasma and Unamo's house would be silent if not for the slight creaking of his lantern and the crunch of his heels grinding down onto small white stones. All around him mist twists and writhes amidst the graves where it is pinned by the waning moonlight. The dark silhouettes of pines, black shapes with vague edges that play tricks on the mind, stand like paper cut-outs against an even darker sky.

 

            Hux hurries down the path, undaunted by the eerie atmosphere that’s taken over the night. His shoulders are weighed down by the thick wool cloak he’s wrapped himself in, and beneath that he wears loose fitting cotton pants and a plain black shirt. Though only a few hours have passed since he’d been forced to make a hasty retreat from the Ball the temperature has somehow managed to drop; warm air still swirls around him, but where the mist clings to his skin and clothes he is quickly growing cold. He fights back the shiver that threatens to run down his spine and keeps his eyes on the light of his lantern.

 

            It is a relief when the house finally breaks through the gloom. The windows are dark and the air is stagnant. Nothing moves and there are no visible signs of life. Hux never breaks his stride, knowing that no matter how empty it appears its owners will have waited for him. Climbing the steps and coming to a stop before the door, he does take a moment to feel bad about potentially waking them before giving three sharp knocks.

 

            “Where have you been?”

 

            Hux stiffens, and it is only strict discipline and years of practice that keep the movement from blooming into a full blown flinch. A calm glance to the side reveals Unamo and Phasma where they stand by the railing, the first in a controlled parade rest while the latter leans back with crossed arms.

 

            Phasma pushes off the banister and comes forward. When she stops by his side her face is lit by the dancing flames of his lantern and its orange glow reveals the bags beneath her eyes and the worried frown on her lips. “Well?” she demands, the muscles in her arms flexing as she grows tense.

 

            Before he can respond Unamo materializes next to her wife, one hand leaving the small of her back and coming to rest on Phasma’s shoulder which immediately begins to relax. “Rodinon told us what happened, or at least what he saw of it. We were quite surprised when he returned with an empty carriage and an armful of clothes.” She pauses, her gaze flitting from his damp hair to his muddied boots, and her eyes are cutting when they finally meet his. “Hux, why has it taken you several hours longer than it should for you to arrive?”

 

            Sighing, Hux lets his shoulders sag beneath his cloak and pinches the bridge of his nose. “While I am more than willing to tell you everything,” he tiredly begins, “I would be far more willing to do so inside.”

 

            Without another word Phasma moves past him to open the door, and Hux shuffles in after her with Unamo bringing up the rear. In a moment of unspoken agreement they all migrate to the library, Hux sitting in his preferred armchair while Phasma and Unamo take the loveseat across from him. Both patiently watch as he settles in, draping his cloak across the back of his seat and crossing his legs, and finally he goes still and quiet.

 

            “I know that you both have questions,” he says, brows furrowed as he sorts through his memories of the Ball, “and as I am unsure of how to begin answering them, I would greatly appreciate it if you’d tell me where to start.”

 

            “At the beginning,” Phasma suggests, wrapping an arm around her wife’s narrow waist. “We want to know everything, and you _did_ offer before we came in.” Unamo leans into her side, nodding her assent.

 

            Hux nods back, already resigned to his fate. “This is going to be a long night,” he sighs, and he slumps down into his seat.

 

**♛**

 

            Two hours later, he has never been more resentful about being proven right.

 

            It is still dark outside, though the sky is growing lighter all the time, and scattered about the cluttered table tops are burning candles of nearly every shape and size. Hux stands in the center of the room, arms held out straight at his sides. He stares out of the large front window with a grimace and feels yet another needle slip into the fabric at his waist, just barely grazing his skin. By this point he’s lost count of them all and can only imagine that the black cloth must be bristling with pins.

 

            “Remind me again,” he drawls, daring to turn his head just enough to shoot Phasma a glare, “why did I let you bring me here?” A large yawn nearly cuts him off, and his mood does not improve when Phasma’s only response is a sly grin.

 

            “Stop moving.” A tan, weathered hand darts up to grab his chin, delicately turning him back to the window. From the top of her small wooden stool, Maz Kanata tsks at him and shakes her head, immediately going back to the fabric once she’s satisfied he isn’t going to shift again. “You’re here,” she scolds, eying his waist and inserting another pin, “because Phasma and her wife are some of my best customers, and I was willing to see you for them. But if I’d known you’d be needing last minute alterations without warning,” she pauses, reaching for a glass on a nearby table and taking a sip of Takodanian ale, “I might’ve reconsidered.”

 

            Carefully moving as little as possible, Hux bows his head and delivers a contrite smile. “And I’m grateful that you didn’t. I meant no disrespect, Ms. Kanata, it’s just that I hadn’t expected to be in need of your services.”

 

            Maz scoffs, waving a hand as she puts down her drink. “Don’t be ridiculous. These Masquerade Balls last for three days and every year I’m busy on all of them. You’re hardly the first person to want me to make belated changes to your costume, even if your alterations aren’t what people usually request. I’d fully expected to see you again. But this is early even for _me_ ,” she complains, shifting her giant glasses and leaning in to peer at the stitching on his vest, “I don’t even want to think about how tired you must be with how _your_ night went.”

 

            Hux instantly whips around to stare at Phasma, so incredulous that he misses Maz insisting he hold still. “You _told_ her?!”

 

            Phasma, taking pity on both him and the incensed tailor, rises from her stool in the corner and comes to stand in front of him with a casual shrug. “I had to. It was the only way I could convince her to let us in.”

 

            “Calm down,” Maz commands, swatting his arm. “I may be old, but I’m not a gossip. When you’ve been around as long as I have you get used to keeping secrets. Telling people wouldn’t be good for me anyway; can you imagine if word got back to Lord Ren? He’d probably storm into my shop and throw a fit, and no gossip is worth paying for those damages.”

 

            “Exactly,” Phasma agrees, nodding down to her with a smile. “Relax, Hux. I’ve known Maz for years and she is not going to tell anyone. Besides, you were the one who wanted to see her. Letting her know why was more or less the price.”

 

            Only slightly mollified, Hux resumes his previous position and scowls at Phasma where she smirks across from him. She isn’t wrong, he knows, but that doesn’t make it any easier to accept.

 

            After the lavishness of last night’s outfit had made escaping the palace so difficult, he had decided that he would not risk it happening again. Running in heels, even with them being a mere two inches high, had been absolutely torturous. Even now his feet are sore, and every step sends a dull throb up his legs that makes him want to wince. The fur coat, while incredibly soft and beautifully adept at warming him, had been so long that it threatened to trip him up at any moment, and making his way through the trees and bushes had been an exercise in patience as it seemed to snag on whatever it could reach. The knowledge that it wasn’t _truly_ his was the only thing that kept him from leaving it behind. Obviously the clothes he wore to the second night would need to be downgraded significantly.

 

            And that was without considering the need to hide from Lord Ren.

 

            “My clothing only needs alteration,” Hux grumbles, shifting at Maz’ request to give her better access to his left shoulder, “because you and Unamo have refused to let me stay home tonight.”

 

            Snorting, Phasma cocks her hip and leans against one of the long worktables, careful to place her hand in a spot that somehow remains clear. “Hux, we both know you are not the type to give up even with this much of a setback. You’re remarkably stubborn when you want to be. If you really didn’t want to go then there is nothing we could do to make you, but even then we would not want you staying in that house. You would be safer at the Masquerade with Lord Ren than you could ever be with Brendol Hux.”

 

            “But that’s exactly why I shouldn’t go!” he persists. “It was hard enough to convince him that I’d not gone last night. Lord Ren said my name right in front of him! Even with everything I had done to convince the Commandant otherwise, part of him is still suspicious, and trying to fool him again would be pushing my already failing luck.”

 

_Hux has just pulled on the last of his clothing when the carriage comes to a stop, Rodinon lightly rapping at the wooden panel to let him know that they’ve arrived. Leaving the discarded outfit on the seat, he flings open the door and climbs out, pausing just long enough to thank the coachman before dashing up the long drive and heading inside. The house is dark and quiet, all of the servants having been relieved for the night._

 

_He doesn’t waste his time lighting candles, relying on muscle memory and faint streams of moonlight, and he arrives at the kitchen in record time. There is a bucket of water waiting for him by the door. Without hesitation he lifts it to the counter and dunks his head in, using his hands to comb through his hair and remove every last trace of soot. Pulling back with a gasp, he ignores the icy drops running down his chilled skin in favor of taking the bucket out through the servant’s door and pouring all of the water outside, leaving the pail against the wall for the kitchen staff to find come morning._

 

_Hux returns to the kitchen and latches the door, but before he can leave he finds himself slowing before the counter. There is a ring of water where the bucket stood. He stares down at it, wrestling with the urge to clear away what could be damning evidence and the impending sense that he is running out of time. Snarling, he gives in and drops to his knees, flinging open the doors to the cupboard and finding a ratty hand towel. It is quickly pressed into the spill and he is glad to find that it is more absorbent than one might think. Within seconds the water is gone, the towel is replaced, and he is leaving._

 

_The cold air of the basement is made all the worse by his damp hair, but he doesn’t have time to focus on the unpleasant feeling. By the time he’s reached the bottom of the stairs Hux is already out of his shirt, and his pants and boots soon follow. Crossing the small room, he opens his wardrobe and hangs them up as neatly as he can in what little time the task is allowed. The embers in the hearth are still lit, though the fire burns low, and he takes a moment to dry his hair as best he can with the corner of his bedsheet before slipping into his pajamas. His covers are pulled back and he slides into bed. Before his cheek hits the pillow Hux has already relaxed his breathing, and when he curls in on his side his eyes are closed._

 

_What feels like seconds later the door to the basement loudly slams into the wall._

 

_“Get up,” the Commandant growls, stomping down the stairs, and Hux doesn’t have to feign his surprise when the sheets are roughly yanked away._

 

_Heart lurching in his chest, he sits up and blinks, squinting in the light of the candle being carried by his father. “What-”_

 

 _A sharp slap connects with his cheek, whipping his head to the side. He blinks again, dazed from the sudden blow, and when he guardedly turns to face the Commandant he finds that he is absolutely livid. “Don’t play games with me,_ boy _,” he spits, his hand still raised in front of him, “tell me where they are.”_

 

_Confused, Hux lightly rubs his cheek and asks, “Where what is?”_

 

 _He is rewarded with another slap, this one harder than the last. “The_ clothes _, damn you! The ones you wore to this stars-blasted ball! Where are they?” Without waiting for his response the Commandant strides to his wardrobe and throws open the doors, shoving his clothes aside and feeling the back for the telltale signs of a hidden panel._

 

_Hux is slower to interrupt this time, his eyes beginning to sting as he waits for his ears to stop ringing. He warily waits for the Commandant to finish his search, stiffening when he is once again the subject of his attention. “Father,” he cautiously begins, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I have been home all evening and went to sleep hours ago.”_

 

_The Commandant stares at him in furious silence for a long moment, and when he finally reacts he steps forward and wrenches Hux out of bed by the arm. Without another word he pulls him up the stairs and into the great room, roughly shoving him down onto the rug. Lady Maratelle is perched on the sofa and she glares at him with vehement disdain, painted lips curving down into a sneer. It is obvious that the Commandant has already informed the family of his conclusion, and Hux grimaces at the thought of how much harder it will be to convince them all._

 

_Like bloodhounds honing in on the scent of his misery, Izar and Pleione suddenly arrive from another part of the house, wearing matching looks of disgusted frustration._

 

_“Well?” the Commandant demands impatiently, having apparently been waiting for them._

 

_“Everything’s been cleaned,” Izar pouts, flopping down next to his mother as Pleione adds, “Even our bathroom.”_

 

_Shuddering at that disturbing contribution, Hux mentally thanks Thanisson, the servant Phasma and Unamo had sent over to complete his assigned chores in his place, and makes a note to do something nice for the poor man next time they meet._

 

 _He is forced to tune back in when the Commandant tugs him up off the floor and drags him over to the couch, speaking in a tight, low voice. “Izar, you saw the man Lord Ren was dancing with up close. Look at Armitage and tell me if you think it could have been him. I suggest you think_ very _carefully.”_

 

_Hux braces himself and fixes a neutral expression on his face, watching as Izar slowly looks him over from head to toe. He takes an agonizingly long time to reach a decision, and Hux would be worried if it was anyone else, but with his stepbrother he knows he’s just relishing the opportunity to see him squirm. Finally Izar sinks back into the sofa with a tired sigh, as though just looking at Hux had somehow been exhausting. “No, it couldn’t have been him. The other man had black hair and was actually somewhat aesthetically pleasing. Emberarmie couldn’t have looked anywhere near that good if he tried.”_

 

_Ignoring his revulsion at the backhanded compliment, Hux focuses on concealing his reaction as he is swept up in a wave of intense relief. The Commandant drops his arm immediately and claims his seat across from the sofa, leaving Hux to take the rickety wooden chair that they’ve left in the corner specifically for him. He’s barely managed to sit down before the Commandant is speaking._

 

_“Armitage,” he states flatly, gaze rife with vague suspicion even now, “I will allow you to ask one question about the Ball as you apparently did not attend.”_

 

_Hux watches him with apprehension, knowing that his every word is going to be picked apart and scrutinized. “Thank you, father,” he says slowly, wracking his brain for a safe topic. “How was your introduction to the Supreme Leader?”_

 

_The Commandant’s gaze sharpens. “This Ball had a different guest of honor. Are you not curious about the Master of the Knights of Ren?”_

 

_“Should I be?” Hux says, appearing for all intents and purposes disinterested. “The one who truly matters is Supreme Leader Snoke. Lord Ren is completely irrelevant.” The words bring a tiny pang to his chest and he frowns, unwilling to consider why._

 

_It is worth it because the Commandant nods, appearing far more satisfied. “Well spoken. The meeting with Supreme Leader Snoke went well, and we briefly discussed my role in the building of our army.”_

 

_“He was especially pleased with father’s Stormtrooper program,” Pleione pipes up, chest puffing out like he’s the one who has been paid a compliment. “The Supreme Leader specifically invited him to congratulate him on his success.”_

 

_The Commandant wears a strange expression of fond annoyance, not liking that he’s been interrupted yet appreciative of Pleione’s enthusiasm nonetheless. “Yes,” he muses, “it is good to know that our leader can recognize those who are doing our military a great service. He is both powerful and wise. With him on our side it is only a matter of time before we bring an end to the vile New Republic.”_

 

_“Speaking of the New Republic,” Izar cuts in, eyes glittering with malicious joy, “I happened to learn something interesting from some of the staff tonight. As it turns out, the Supreme Leader’s got them keeping quite the secret.” Seeing that he’s gotten everyone’s attention, he lowers his voice and leans in as though worried that someone will overhear. “The man we know as Lord Kylo Ren is actually Ben Organa-Solo.”_

 

 _“_ What?! _” Lady Maratelle shrieks, covering her mouth with a dainty hand. “The son of that rowdy smuggler and uppity princess?!”_

 

_“Yes,” he replies, clearly enjoying himself as he leans in even further, “the very same. Apparently the Supreme Leader personally converted him for his power, and now he’s banned everyone from bringing it up. Can you believe it? All of these Balls held just for the sake of marrying him, and he’s of New Republic blood. Such a waste.”_

 

 _“Not for_ me _,” Pleione argues, “he might have New Republic blood but he’s still a prince, and now he’s also the Master of the Knights of Ren. It’s not like he’s going to rejoin their side.”_

 

 _Wrinkling his nose, Izar turns to face him like he’s never seen him before, crying, “You’d marry that abomination even with his veins full of_ filth _?!” with disbelief that only grows stronger when Pleione simply shrugs._

 

_Hux watches their exchange in stunned silence, attempting to force this information into his mind alongside what he already knows of Lord Ren. It both does and does not fit, and he ends up not quite knowing how to feel about it. In the end he concludes that this doesn't really change anything. So what if he’s originally from the New Republic? He’s clearly not a part of it anymore, and as far as Hux is concerned, as long as he has no qualms about killing their enemies he can be from any place he likes._

 

_Almost simultaneously the Commandant contradicts his thoughts, gravely stating, “This changes everything. Lord Ren is our greatest weapon, and he’s been shaped by enemy hands?! Unacceptable! He’s already turned on his kingdom once, who’s to say he won’t do it again? What is the Supreme Leader thinking?! He’s been let into the core of the First Order and all this time he’s been a flight risk!”_

 

 _“Not to mention his impact on our future,” Lady Maratelle sniffs. “What if he has_ children _? The entire bloodline will be tainted before it can even begin.”_

 

            Unbelievable. _Hux stares at his family as they squabble over Lord Ren’s purity and feels nothing but disgust. They are so superficial, so shallow that they cannot even tolerate the_ idea _of someone having unsavory origins, regardless of what they’ve done since then, and he cannot believe that if he’d wanted to he could have been escorted to this house by Lord Ren himself._

 

            Breaking away from his reverie, Hux groans and covers his face with both hands, once again upsetting Maz. “Oh gods, Phasma, Lord Ren almost followed me home. We danced a grand total of three times and he thought he was ready to meet my _family_.”

 

            Maz laughs and says, “Sounds like he’s smitten,” before patting his back consolingly. “Don’t worry, dear, you’ll get him next time.”

 

            “No, Ms. Kanata, that is the problem. I don’t _want_ to get him. And I don’t want him to get me either, which is why I should _not_ be going to this Ball again.” He aims the last part at Phasma, scowling.

 

            “Do not lie to me, Hux,” she challenges, “it has been _years_ since I’ve seen anyone get you this interested. You’ve gotten off to a rough start-”

 

            “ _Rough start?!_ ” he sputters.

 

            “-but maybe you should give it a chance. From what you’ve told me it sounds like Lord Ren is making a genuine effort to get you to like him. Hearing you reject him like this makes him seem rather pitiful.”

 

            “Phasma, he refused to let me dance with anyone else and almost killed the only man who tried,” he says drily, arching a brow. To his left Maz chokes on a mouthful of ale. “Forgive me if I don’t find him all that charming.”

 

            “But that’s my point! You _do_ find him at least somewhat charming, even with all that happened. Before you found out who he was you enjoyed spending time with him, and after finding out you willingly engaged in intelligent conversation about the Force, which, by the way, you previously believed did not exist. If anything, I would say you got along quite well when you weren’t at each other’s throats. You aren’t even angry about the possessiveness or violence; you just dislike not being in control.”

 

            Hux glares at her in silence, unable to argue but unwilling to give in. He’s mostly angry with himself, recognizing all of it as true even as he wants to resist it with all of his being, but he refuses to even consider what she is suggesting for a minute. “You said so yourself, the entire point of me attending this dance is so that I can find someone easily controlled. I am not going to this Ball for Lord Ren. In fact, if I have any luck at all I will go unbothered by him for all of the remaining nights.”

 

            “Of course,” she agrees sarcastically with a frustrated wave of her hand, “you will never see each other again, and you will certainly never want to. After all, who could _ever_ like Lord Ren?”

 

            Hux nods. “You are exactly right. Lord Ren is an intolerable menace, and I’m glad you’ve come around.” His chest gives another pang and he viciously shoves away any lingering feelings. Nothing will come of them, not if he can help it, so there is no reason to acknowledge the fact that they exist. Hux does not _fear_ love, but he certainly isn’t ready for it, and even if he was he would never actively choose to seek it out in Lord Ren. No, he will successfully complete his goal and marry some foolish rich man. He will escape his family and build a life for himself. There is no room for a brooding Dark Lord in his plans, and there never will be.

 

            He wishes he could believe as easily as he can pretend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phasma and Unamo: How was the Ball?  
> Hux: Lord Ren called me a whore choked a guy out and tried to follow me home  
> Phasma and Unamo: So pretty good then
> 
> Next chapter will take place on the second night of the Ball! With any luck it'll be easier to write and should be posted some time soon :D


	7. Just Because It's Done, Doesn't Mean It Should Be Done I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Force stuff ahead, just gonna go ahead and remind everyone that I don't know what I'm talking about ˙ ͜ʟ˙
> 
> I don't want to spoil anything, but while I've been using italics for thoughts and memories bold is coming into play for something a little different. I'd love feedback on whether this works for you because I couldn't decide how best to make those parts distinct! Hopefully it reads ok.
> 
> Now that we're getting closer to the end, I've updated my chapter count and am fairly sure there are going to be fourteen. If that changes at all it will be to increase by one depending on how long a certain chapter ends up. 
> 
> I've thanked her before, but I feel the need to thank DcDreamer again!!! Her comments on my original draft completely saved this chapter and the two that will follow, and without her help none of this would have turned out nearly as well. I appreciate her so much!! Thank you!!!!!!
> 
> This chapter is a long one. Sorry it took so long, I got writer's block on top of being sick. Thanks for waiting, and I hope you all enjoy it :D

**♛**

 

            In an entirely unpleasant twist of fate, when the Ball is two hours out Hux once again finds himself kneeling before one of his ungrateful stepbrothers. It is made all the worse by the fact that he had been woken from his few meager hours of much-needed sleep for several inane tasks that could have been handled by nearly anyone else.

 

            Izar stands before him with a hand on his out-cocked hip, ignoring him where he laces up his absurdly high-heeled boots in the pattern he’d requested while he bickers with Pleione above his head. From anyone else this total disregard would be a slight, but Hux is grateful to have been excluded from their banal conversation and perfectly content to tune them out.

 

            Naturally, this means that when Izar addresses him he is completely unprepared. “-what do you think, Emberarmie?”

 

            Both stare at him expectantly and he stares back, unrepentant yet expressionless. The longer he goes without responding the more irritated his stepbrothers grow, their eyes thinning into twin slits, and finally Izar scoffs and throws out an exasperated hand. “We’ve been talking about the Ball for hours and you haven’t been listening?! Just who do you think we’ve been doing that _for?_ ”

 

 _Yourselves_. Hux ties Izar’s laces off in a neat bow and rises to his feet, back and knees aching in protest. His stepbrothers track the movement with piercing gazes and cross their arms at nearly the same time. “My apologies,” he soothes with a genial smile, “I had thought you might want some privacy for your conversation.”

 

            “Gods, you’re always to _polite_ ,” whines Pleione as he slumps against the post of his bed. “Are you not curious about the Masquerade at _all?_ After all, you were the only one who didn’t go,” he shares a nasty smirk with Izar and vaguely waves toward him with a loose hand, “and Izar has shared a dance with Lord Ren.”

 

            At the mention of Lord Ren, his heart gives a jolt that is immediately overshadowed by a strange burning sensation low in his gut. _Izar has danced with Lord Ren_. The burning grows stronger as he pictures them together, hand in hand, spinning through the room in a fluid waltz. Hux frowns and does his best to ignore it, unsure of why it even exists; he had clearly heard Izar ask for a dance. There is no reason for him to be having this reaction now.

 

            “Which brings me back to my question.” A sideways glance reveals that Izar’s smirk has widened into a smug grin, and Hux watches him cross the room to sit by Pleione while his arms fold themselves at the small of his back. “Lord Ren wasn’t the best dancer,” Izar sniffs, “he was easily distracted and surrounded by this weird heat, and I didn’t really enjoy it. Still, I decided to be polite and finish the whole dance. He even asked me to dance again at the end, but I turned him down, thank the Gods.” His nose wrinkles and he sneers at the memory. “It’s so gross to think about now that I know he’s from the New Republic. Can you believe that Pleione _still_ wants to marry him?”

 

            Pleione sits up with a shrug and playfully elbows his ribs. “Sure he can. Lord Ren is rich, famous, successful, and comes with a powerful family,” he counts off on his fingers. “As long as his bloodline stays a secret there’s no problem. It’s not like we can have kids.”

 

            Nudging him back, Izar shakes his head and turns to Hux, Pleione shifting his focus as well. “We need a neutral party and you obviously have no stake in this, so what do you think? Could you marry someone from the New Republic, even someone like Lord Ren?”

 

            Hux regards them passively, but internally he is offended on Lord Ren’s behalf and his own. These fools place so much stock on something as irrelevant as kingdom of origin, and yet still believe that Lord Ren would ever ask for their hands in marriage. Between the three of them he can safely assume he is the _least_ neutral party on the subject as he has spent the most time with their Lord, though it pains him to admit it. There is a myriad of reasons not to marry Lord Ren but bloodlines are not among them. With a tiny grimace, he opens his mouth and says, “I-”

 

            “What is taking so long?” the Commandant demands from the doorway, unknowingly saving him from having to respond. Ignoring Hux completely, he frowns at his stepbrothers and orders, “Pleione, Izar, go down to the carriage. Your mother and I have been waiting for you.” Father and son stand aside to let them pass, following their retreating backs with equally cold eyes, and it is only when they have reached the stairs that the Commandant deigns to address him. “We will be eating at the palace, so do not prepare dinner. Your assigned chores have not changed and I expect them to have been completed when I arrive. However, as an apology for my behavior last night,” the Commandant’s smile is cuttingly sharp and Hux feels a shiver run down his spine at his knowing look, “I have assigned a member of our household staff to assist. Datoo will be with you all night and has been instructed to wait at your side for your commands.” A gloved hand lightly clasps his shoulder and squeezes in unspoken warning. “Have a pleasant night, Armitage.”

 

            Hux nods mutely, face going pale, and can do nothing but clench his fists as the Commandant takes his leave.

 

**♛**

 

            Unfortunately, Datoo turns out to be as determined as he is diligent. No matter the activity, Hux is constantly followed by the man and there is never a moment where he cannot see his teal uniform from the corner of his eye. He had tried to dismiss him, dressing it as an act of kindness by reprieving him of his duties for the night, but Datoo insisted on staying, and not because of the Commandant’s orders bafflingly enough; he just genuinely wanted to offer his help.

 

            “I can’t just leave you to do all of this alone, Mr. Hux,” Datoo gently lectured. “I have been asked to give you my assistance, and I fully intend to. It is… difficult for members of the staff to understand,” he stated slowly, each word carefully chosen to be as inoffensive as possible, “why the Commandant has you occasionally give us your aid, but your efforts are always highly appreciated. If I can ease your burden even slightly I would very much like to do so.”

 

            “Thank you, Datoo,” Hux gravely replied, internally cursing his father. He has always known that the staff are aware of his unusual predicament, but being directly confronted by their knowledge left a bitter taste in his mouth, especially in this instance. Datoo’s attempt at kindness had come at the worst possible moment, and yet he could not afford to inform him of this. “...Why don’t you join me, then? With both of us working my assigned tasks will be completed much faster.” Hux could only hope that the older man would grow tired and finally leave him be.

 

            Three hours later nearly all of his chores have been finished and Datoo is still brimming with energy.

 

            Hux stares down at the marble beneath his hands and knees, gleaming so brightly that even in the candlelight he can see his reflection, and grits his teeth. Several strands of his hair have plastered themselves to his forehead and his joints are positively screaming. To his left Datoo scrubs at the tiles with the same vigor he has shown all evening and hums some lighthearted tune, undaunted even after several hours of rigorous cleaning. Obviously his previous plan isn’t going to work.

 

            Easing back onto his knees, Hux clutches his damp rag in one hand and pinches the bridge of his nose with the other, heaving a deep sigh. When Datoo looks up from his work he adopts a weary tone that is entirely too genuine and declares, “I am going to the kitchen for a glass of water. Would you like one as well?”

 

            He holds his breath, waiting for his affirmation, and is relieved when Datoo answers, “Yes, I would,” with pleasant surprise. It is far less gratifying when he rises to his feet and offers Hux a hand, continuing, “Let me go with you, I can help you draw water from the well.”

 

            Hux takes his hand and allows himself to be pulled to his feet, lips threatening to twist into a scowl. He needs to be the one to give Datoo his water. It is imperative that he be left alone with his glass for at least a few seconds and with the other’s maddening need to help that is going to be difficult, but refusing would be too suspicious. He plasters a grateful smile onto his face and says, “Wonderful! I believe we could both do with a break.”

 

            The walk to the kitchen is made in cordial silence, Datoo unaware that at his side Hux is scheming furiously. By the time they enter the room he has altered his plans and heads directly to the cabinets, pretending to hunt through them while nonchalantly calling, “Could you go and fetch the bucket for the well? I’m going to set our glasses out before joining you,” over his shoulder.

 

            “Of course, Mr. Hux,” Datoo politely replies. Hux continues his ruse until he hears the servant’s door swing closed, and then he immediately sets two glasses on the counter. With no time to spare he drops to his knees and opens a small drawer, filled with the various odds and ends that often find their way into the kitchen; the motley assortment of goods is largely useless, especially in this environment, and so no one has been given any reason to sort through them. Hux has used this to his full advantage and without needing light he reaches into the very back and removes a white paper packet.

 

            On his twenty-ninth birthday Unamo had given him a gift. He’d been complaining of Izar and Pleione’s latest torture of waking him at odd hours of the night for minor spills and inconveniences, what should have been minutes of work stretching out needlessly when they intentionally questioned his every action. He could not lash out at them, no matter how much he might want to, and they all knew it. But Unamo had surprised him with a different solution.

 

            Hux carefully unfolds a corner of the paper and shakes a small pile of white powder into his palm before resealing the packet and returning it. He stands and sprinkles the drug into the glass on the right with sure, even movements. This sleeping drug is powerful, but slow acting. It had made its way into his stepbrother’s dinners many, many times, and no one has ever suspected a thing. Unfortunately he cannot afford to wait this time, and so he’s been forced to increase the dosage. When Datoo drinks from this glass, it will take effect in minutes.

 

            Leaving the glasses behind, Hux steps outside and surreptitiously brushes off his palm, watching Datoo lower the bucket into the well. He casually approaches and calls, “Do you need any help?”

 

            Datoo smiles and calls back, “No, thank you though.” He slowly cranks the handle and both watch the much heavier bucket rise to the top.

 

            “Please, allow me.” Before Datoo can intervene, Hux leans in and lifts it off the rope, turning on his heel and heading back in. Datoo follows him, and when he makes for the counter Hux waves him off, saying, “If you want to sit at the table, I can fill our glasses.”

 

            Datoo nods and primly settles into a chair at the small servant’s table. Hux ladles water into both glasses with methodical, deliberate movements, careful not to spill a drop, and sets Datoo’s on the tabletop in front of him. Pulling up his own chair, Hux watches him take a large swallow and sips from his own glass, appreciating the cool relief it offers his throat. “Datoo, may I ask you a question?”

 

            “Yes, of course.” Datoo takes another drink.

 

            “Why is your uniform teal? I cannot recall having seen any like it.”

 

            Datoo takes another, smaller sip and blinks with a low hum. More than half of the water in his cup is gone. “It is— It’s a symbol of my rank within the household staff.”

 

            “Oh?” Hux drinks from his cup, and again Datoo does the same. “Then it must be important to you. Do you like the color?”

 

            Finishing his glass with a final large sip, Datoo sets it down heavily with a loud _clink_. He blinks at the sounds and stares dazedly at his cup before looking back up with vacant, half-lidded eyes. “Yes. Teal is my favorite color…” There is another slow, drawn out blink, and his head begins to list forward. “Mr. Hux, I’m afraid I might not be able to help,” he calmly slurs, eyes drifting closed as his head comes to rest on the table, “Sorry…”

 

            Hux lowers his drink and smiles, observing Datoo as his breaths even out. “That’s quite alright,” he murmurs softly, “you certainly gave it your best try.” Quietly rising from his chair, he takes both the glasses and the bucket and goes back outside. The contents of the bucket are used to rinse out Datoo’s while his remaining water is poured onto the grass. This time he refills the bucket himself, carrying it inside and leaving it on the counter before drying their cups and returning them to the cabinet. With a final glance at Datoo’s hunched form, Hux leaves the room. Already too much time has been lost. Phasma and Unamo are waiting for him, and only now has his night finally begun.

 

**♛**

 

            Unsurprisingly, the palace is just as full on the second night.

 

            Upon exiting the carriage Hux is swallowed by the throng once more, but this time when he reaches the final hall standing between him and the ballroom he immediately slips aside and hugs the wall. There are more people coming and going in this area and so a vast majority of the crowd remains none the wiser. It is easy to merge with the shadows cast by the sconces high above his head and enter the room unnoticed.

 

            Though he doesn't linger, the brief glimpse he gets of the dancefloor while at the top of the stairs reveals that his clothing does not follow the general trend of escalation; the quality of finery has more than doubled, and vast constellations of jewels wink and glimmer any time their respective wrists, fingers, and throats shift to let them catch the candlelight.

 

            In direct contrast his own outfit is largely matte black, with the exception of a few silver and white accents. His shirt is black with a white collar, the sleeves loose and flowing below the elbow and falling to about mid-palm, concealing the tops of his black gloves. At his neck a simple tie of light grey silk is snugly knotted. Over this he wears a plain black vest with two silver buttons and a single left pocket. The fabric has a dull sheen, his pressed trousers made of the same material. Where before he had worn laced heels, Hux now wears sensible black dress shoes. His fur coat has been exchanged for a short cloak of black cotton, a wide band of leather cutting in at waist-height, and between his shoulder blades is a large white First Order emblem. His mask is black with swirling silver along its front. A set of horns, shorter and straighter than the last, curve back at the top. The mask cuts off at the bridge of his nose and delicately sweeps over the tops of his cheeks, thin silver chains suspending tear drop-shaped crystals from its lowest points. Once again Hux has darkened his hair with soot. However, in a subtle gesture of defiance the color of his lashes goes unchanged.

 

            Carefully ignoring the twin thrones on the opposite side of the room, Hux merges with the cluster of people milling about at the bottom of the staircase and slowly makes his way to the refreshment tables. If anyone recognizes him they do not approach. While he cannot blame them, it stings to know he’s lost all of his prospects from the previous night and their evasion is far from encouraging. Sighing as yet another woman attempts to discreetly avoid meeting his eyes, Hux plucks a flute of champagne off a nearby table and takes a deep sip. Already he is beginning to feel that coming may have been a mistake. He is several hours late. No one will talk to him, and certainly no one will ask him to dance. Even the endless prattling of yesterday would be preferable to this, and he briefly contemplates just how angry Phasma and Unamo would be if he decided to leave—

 

**You’ve skipped the line again, I see.**

 

            Hux starts violently and drops his glass at the sound of Lord Ren’s sardonic drawl in his head. It freezes just before it can smash against the ground, and out of the corner of his eye he sees an extended hand encased in a familiar black leather glove. Hackles raised, he whirls around as the glass gently floats at his side, not a drop spilled. Though he had opened his mouth to speak, at the sight of Lord Ren he closes it in favor of taking him in.

 

            Whereas _he_ had gone the route of de-escalation, Lord Ren had apparently chosen to fully embrace the upward shift in fashion and bare an unfairly distracting amount of skin. Though still wearing that hideous helmet, it could be easily ignored in favor of his body. A tight leather crop top conceals his chest and black leather of the same type clings to his firm thighs before disappearing into the tops of his boots. The same horizontally ruffled sleeves as before cover his arms from elbow to wrist, and a broad choker of it covers all of his neck. Two thick bands of black wrap around his biceps. All of this would be eye catching enough, but his exposed upper arms and well-defined abdomen are encased in a skin-tight mesh of ethereal silver wire that positively shines even in this soft golden light. The only thing spoiling the image is a black cowl of some coarse material that loops around his shoulders and falls down his back. Still, Hux can admit to admiring the view and finding it more than pleasant.

 

            It is far less so when Lord Ren grabs his wrist.

 

            “Armitage,” he greets, and already his voice is tight with anger, “how nice of you to come.” Inclining his head, he gestures to the dancefloor with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. “Shall we?” It is clear that this is a command, the questioning lilt mere courtesy.

 

            Frowning, Hux gives his arm an experimental tug and finds that he has no chance of escape. _Wonderful._ “Actually, I would prefer not to dance until I’ve finished my drink,” he tries. “Now, if you'll excuse me…” Reaching for the flute where it levitates by his shoulder, he can only watch with resignation as it dodges his hand and neatly settles on the nearest table’s edge.

 

            Lord Ren gives his wrist a small squeeze of warning. “I insist,” he rumbles, and the space around them begins to heat.

 

            Already Hux can feel the stares, those around them quickly moving to give them a wide berth. With an irritated huff he attempts to pull away in earnest, frustration mounting when this yields nothing, and orders, “Let go of me. I have no interest in dancing with you right now, and even if I did this behavior would have changed my mind.”

 

            “This is not up for debate,” snaps Lord Ren.

 

            Disturbingly enough Hux can feel the air quivering with what he can only assume to be Force energy, but this only has him even more annoyed. With narrowed eyes he hisses, “Are you seriously about to throw a tantrum over us _dancing?_ Stop acting like a child!”

 

            “You’re the one making a scene!” Lord Ren snarls. The quivering is now outright shaking, and the refreshment tables have begun rattling ominously.

 

            Pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand, Hux closes his eyes and slowly counts to three. “Alright,” he bitterly acquiesces, eyes opening into slits, “fine. We can dance if it will keep you from destroying everything.”

 

            Apparently his permission, even if given reluctantly, is all that Lord Ren needs, because in a mirror of the events from last night he is guided out onto the floor and finds them in an open circle immediately. Their timing, ironically enough, could not have been more perfect; the song begins just as Lord Ren impetuously wraps a palm around his waist and takes the lead. He would think it to be the work of the Force, but the atmosphere has since returned to normal and the temperature is hot but gradually decreasing.

 

            Speaking of which, there is an issue that must be addressed. “I have a question for you.”

 

            Across from him Lord Ren cautiously glances over, shoulders growing tense. “...Yes?” he grunts.

 

            "What was that earlier? When I heard your voice in my head.” Scowling, he fixes him with a stern glare. “I thought you said I was ‘resistant’.” His hand leaves the knight’s shoulder to make air quotes before returning. “I doubt that you were lying, and I know that I didn’t invite you in, so how was I able to hear what you were thinking?”

 

            Oddly enough this causes the other to relax. “I was projecting through the Force, not entering your mind. They’re two different things.”

 

            “Projecting…?” he encourages, though at this point he could likely guess at what Lord Ren means. The Force is still new to him. It comes as no surprise that his curiosity on what he has known to be a mythical subject is excessive, even more so when it directly relates to him.

 

            “It’s like…” Lord Ren tips his head down and pauses for a moment, searching for an apt comparison. “...talking to someone, I guess. You can send specific thoughts and feelings, but that’s all the other party can access, and you won’t get anything from them unless they do the same.”

 

            “So Force users can hold entire conversations without saying a word? It’s a wonder any of you speak aloud at all.”

 

            With a low hum he corrects, “Not quite. It’s risky between Force users because it can potentially open a psychic link, so it’s usually only done with people you’re close to or trust not to exploit it.” Now he regards Hux with curiosity of his own. “But non-Force users can project too, and with them accidental linking isn’t a problem.”

 

**You can try it if you want.**

 

            Again Hux flinches at the mental intrusion, cursing the other as he watches with open amusement. “I’d rather not involve myself with this Force nonsense, thank you. Matters like these are best left in the hands of those with experience,” he firmly states as they spin in a tight arc.

 

            “You say that,” taunts Lord Ren, “but I can feel your interest.” Chuckling lightly, he slowly shakes his head. “Why are you so stubborn? You’re particularly dense to the Force, but that doesn’t mean you have to avoid interacting with it. It’s life energy, Armitage, and it’s already inside of us all. With the help of a powerful Force user even _you_ can do this much, and even if you can’t it’s not like I’m going to judge.”

 

            Hux shoots him a half-lidded glare, unimpressed with his weak attempt at persuasion, and drily says, “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but you _erased your identity_ the last time you were in my head, and that was without me giving you permission to enter. A lack of _judgment_ on your part is hardly enough incentive for me to actively let you in again.”

 

            “Armitage, that argument doesn’t make any _sense_ ,” Lord Ren protests with an agitated groan. “The entire point of projection is that it takes place outside of the mind. Neither of us would be in the other’s head.”

 

            “And yet your word is all I have to go on. I would hope that you could understand how I might find that unsettling seeing as I have never involved myself with the Force and you are a powerful user with a great deal of practical experience. If you decided to take advantage of my ignorance I would have no way to stop you, and unlike you I am not eager to explore this imbalance of power or my resulting vulnerability. Unless you can prove that what you say is true, which I highly doubt, I am going to abstain from any projecting.”

 

            Across from him Lord Ren is silent, considering his multiple valid points and likely formatting his counter argument. “...You’re right,” he finally agrees, lightly squeezing his hand, “I hadn’t thought of it that way. I keep forgetting that you’re new to all of this; the Force has been a constant all my life so it’s hard to imagine living without it. I can’t prove that I’m not lying, and I can’t deny the difference between our levels of skill, but I would never use something like that against you. Trust me, Armitage. Projection is harmless. All I want is for you to try it.”

 

            Hux eyes him warily and flexes his fingers in his gloves, gauging the sincerity of his words. Lord Ren is content to let him take his time, and after a brief mental debate he finally reaches a decision. “...I am willing to try. _However_ ,” he says with a sharp look, “if this doesn’t work we never speak of it again.”

 

            Even with the helmet Hux can somehow tell that Lord Ren is grinning, his poorly restrained excitement carrying over into his voice. “Fair enough.”

 

            Giving a curt nod, Hux braces himself and says, “For obvious reasons I will not know what I’m doing, so you’ll have to tell me where to start.”

 

            This seems to dampen the knight’s enthusiasm considerably. “I’m… not entirely sure. Things like this came naturally to me. Projection isn’t something we’re taught.” He subconsciously pulls Hux in closer, concentrated on crafting instructions and missing his scandalized look when they wind up almost chest to chest. “Try to get a sense of your energy, and then focus on a specific thought. Then find _my_ energy and push the thought toward me.”

 

            Hux gives him a blank stare. “That is incredibly vague and completely useless. I have never and will never be able to sense energies.”

 

            “Then try thinking of it as something physical,” he suggests, sounding frustrated with them both. “Imagine your thought as an object you’re throwing at me.”

 

            “You should have led with that,” quips Hux, closing his eyes and turning his focus inward, “throwing things at you is something I can envision myself doing all too easily.” Ignoring Lord Ren’s affronted huff, he chooses a test thought suitable to his purpose and does as he was told, feeling silly all the while.

 

_I will end you if Supreme Leader Snoke overhears any of this._

 

            Choking on a laugh, Lord Ren missteps and has to right himself quickly. “Not— not quite there yet. You were loud but you weren’t projecting. Try again.”

 

            Frowning, Hux furrows his brow and increases his effort, mentally taking his thought and compacting it into a ball before lobbing it in Lord Ren’s direction with all of his strength.

 

**WHAT ABOUT NOW?**

 

            He feels Lord Ren wobble as though struck and opens his eyes to find him rearing backward, grip on his waist going slack. “That’s _too_ much! Gods, Armitage, I didn’t even know a non-Force user could do that. Tone it down.”

 

            Feeling properly chastised, Hux nods and tries again. This time he attempts to soften the blow considerably and gives his thought a gentle toss. **Is this better?**

 

            Lord Ren relaxes and nods back. **Much.** His hold grows firm once more and he praises, **You’re good at this. With a little practice I’m sure you’ll be able to refine your control.**

 

            Ignoring the strange flutter this brings to his chest, Hux waits for him to finish, feeling slightly awkward. When nothing is forthcoming for a long, drawn out moment he frowns, prodding, **...And?**

 

            The helmet shifts, Lord Ren regarding him with confusion. **...And what?**

 

            Rolling his eyes, Hux impatiently replies, **Come now, there has to be more than that. What do I need to improve on? How can I better my performance?**

 

 **...You want me to** **_criticize_ ** **you?** Lord Ren sounds vaguely concerned now, his gaze much too sharp. **Why?**

 

            Now Hux is the one confused. He adjusts his grip and explains, **...Because otherwise I will not know what needs to change…? Have you honestly never heard of constructive criticism? If I’m remembering it correctly, you were the one to say, ‘You need to tell me when I’ve done something wrong so I can avoid doing it again’.** It is remarkably disorienting to realize he has shared the memory of those words rather than simply repeating them, Lord Ren’s voice coming through as a slightly distorted echo in his head.

 

            Apparently Lord Ren finds this just as disconcerting, leaning back in mild surprise, but when he leans back in his voice is fierce with pride. **Armitage, you’ve never used the Force before in your life and yet projection took you** **_two tries_ ** **where others might have taken days. You weren’t perfect at it, yes, but there’s absolutely nothing for me to criticize, and I can already tell that you’ll be as good as me if you decide to practice. You’re incredible.**

 

            The fluttering explodes, and it feels like an entire swarm of butterflies has taken flight, their wingtips brushing against his ribs. He feels warmth pooling in the center of his chest and knows he’s grown flush. _Stop it,_ he scolds himself, _you’re acting like a teenager with a crush_ . Wrangling his unruly emotions and hoping that they went unnoticed by Lord Ren, he coolly projects, **Thank you. Your praise is greatly appreciated.**

 

 **Thank** **_you_ ** **,** replies Lord Ren, **for being willing to try. It… means more to me than you think.**

 

            Embarrassed for them both, he glances down and is startled to realize just how little space remains between their chests. Over the course of that little exercise they have somehow managed to drift even closer, flush against one another in what may as well be an embrace while they dance.

 

            Moving to pull away, he finds himself imprisoned by Lord Ren’s arms anew. An upward glance reveals that the other is avoiding his gaze. **Lord Ren** — His head deliberately turns away and the set of his shoulders is suspiciously rigid. _Gods, not again._ Clearing his throat, he tries, **Lord Ren, please relax your grip.** Nothing happens. Honestly he should have known better than to expect him to respond to civility. Any remaining butterflies meet a swift and bitter end. With a ferocious glower Hux snidely bites out, “Feeling a bit _possessive_ , Lord Ren? While I am flattered, I must insist that you release me at once. Even _you_ can admit that this is an inappropriate distance for waltzing.”

 

            His response is an instantaneous spike in temperature, the air around them practically combusting, and even with their circle of space the nearest dancers are suddenly drenched in heat. “Oh, _my_ _apologies_ , Armitage,” he begins in a tone that is far too sweet, “Please, by all means, inform me of what an _appropriate_ distance would be.” Lord Ren towers over him, his voice dropping into a low growl. “Because last time you seemed to think that meant a locked door and scaling a balcony with a rope made of sheets you stole from the bed.”

 

            Essentially trapped, Hux can do nothing more than vehemently glare into the eye slit of that stupid helmet. “ _Lord Ren-”_

 

            “Kylo.”

 

            Blinking at the one-word demand, he lets his upper lip curl into a sneer. “Pardon?” he blithely questions, giving the other a chance to take his foolish suggestion back.

 

            “ _Kylo_ ,” insists Lord Ren, leaning in even further. All eyes in the room are on them and Hux hears more than a few outraged gasps as the distance between their faces shrinks. “My _name_ . Is _Kylo_ . Lord Ren is my title, and we left those behind about the same time you decided to _run away from me_.”

 

            Sniffing, Hux fixes him with a look of pure disdain. “I think not,” he counters. “Lord Ren-”

 

            “Kylo-”

 

            “Lord _Ren-_ ”

 

            “ _Kylo-_ ”

 

            “ _Ren!_ ” he snarls furiously, throwing up his hands. “Maybe instead of being mad at me for _running_ you should think of why I felt the need! Look at it from my perspective: you forced me to dance with you all night and refused to let me leave without you even after I _explicitly_ told you I wanted to go back alone. Can you not see how controlling you were being?! I didn’t have a _choice_.”

 

            They come to an abrupt halt, Ren staring down at him wordlessly. The entire room’s tempo is thrown off, the other dancers forced to maneuver around them as everyone seems to hold their collective breaths. Hux, on the other hand, is breathing heavily, though not outright panting, and he takes a moment to collect himself. Ren must do the same because a few seconds later the tension breaks and they are dancing again, albeit offbeat and very slowly.

 

 **...Let’s discuss this in private.** Ren has moved to give him his space, and his projected voice sounds far more placid than it had when he’d last spoken.

 

 **Agreed.** Some of his ire must seep into the thought unintentionally, because almost immediately after he receives the indescribable sensation of what he can only deem ‘apology’. He knows it to be Ren’s, but only because it is so different from his own feelings, and it is highly disconcerting to realize that upon consideration he actually _can_ sense some kind of foreign energy. **Stop that, I’m trying to be angry with you and you’re distracting me.**

 

 **Sorry,** this time the thought is accompanied by a hint of fondness that makes the word feel soft and somewhat hazy, **I’m used to doing that on instinct. This is how I communicate with my Knights. We generally ‘speak’ in emotions if words aren’t necessary, but if it bothers you I can try to hold back.**

 

            Hux considers it, but ultimately discards the notion as foolish. With that awful bucket concealing Ren’s face this is his only chance to confidently read him with guaranteed accuracy. **...No, that’s alright. Just try to keep in mind that this is a new experience for me, and having to deal with outside emotions is mildly disorienting at best.**

 

            Ren nods his consent, and their waltz picks up until they’re dancing in time to the music. For a while they neither speak _nor_ think, and they lazily circle the room in calm silence. It is frustrating, because Hux is constantly torn between aggressively bickering with Ren and enjoying the moments like these. His own emotions concerning the other man oscillate so wildly during their brief interactions that it leaves him feeling dizzy. Yet against his better judgement, Phasma had been right when she said Ren was the only person at this Ball that he finds even remotely interesting. The Force user is simply too fascinating to ignore, damn him, and he both is and is not what Hux had expected him to be.

 

            Case in point, Ren gives him the mental equivalent of a gentle nudge and projects, **About last night… I’m sorry. While I still don’t think you should’ve run, I see now that I was out of line. From now on if you want to dance with someone else I won’t interfere.** A note of bitterness taints the last sentence and it is clear that this olive branch has been offered reluctantly, but it is enough.

 

 **Thank you,** Hux replies, and even he is surprised by the warmth of the thought. To conceal his slight embarrassment he snarks, **Unfortunately, I doubt that anyone else is going to want to dance with me. You left quite the impression on them yesterday. I hadn’t spoken to a single person until you arrived.**

 

            The sensation of a frown is pressed into his mind as they drift to a graceful stop, the first dance ending. **That’s a shame, but these cowards aren’t worth your time anyway.**

 

            Charmed despite himself, he is a split second from replying when a new voice cuts in. “Pardon me, Lord Ren. Would you honor me with a dance?” They both look over to find a woman in an elegant gown of emerald satin, her mask a delicate nest of golden wire studded with the occasional jade leaf. Beneath their combined gazes she drops into a beautiful curtsy, peeking up at Ren from the dark fan of her lashes with an openly hopeful expression.

 

            The woman is lovely, refined, and polite, and Hux can only assume that Ren will accept. However, when he goes to begrudgingly untangle himself he receives what feels like a single wordless question mark. A sideways glance reveals that Ren has already turned back to him, the woman going ignored. **Don’t you want to dance with her?** Hux asks, frowning.

 

 **Not really,** Ren replies in his head while saying, “I appreciate your offer, but he is my dance partner,” aloud.

 

            The woman rises from her curtsy and inclines her head before taking her leave. Hux watches her go and feels the frown on his face deepen with confusion. Ren smoothly leads him into the second dance while he is distracted, thoughts racing for what could be mere seconds or several minutes. Why had the woman been turned away? She could have been a good candidate for a spouse, and unlike the others she had been daring enough to approach the Masquerade’s guest of honor. It makes no sense. Only one night remains of this year’s Masquerade, and he can’t imagine that Ren enjoys repeating these Balls with the hope that a suitable partner will attend. Almost to himself, Hux mutters, “Careful, Ren. At this rate you won’t end up dancing with anyone else.”

 

            “I haven’t.”

 

            Startled, Hux glances up at him with an alarmed, “What?”

 

            Ren shrugs, unconcerned with his apparently non-existent prospects. “I haven’t danced with anyone else. You have to remember, I can hear all of their thoughts and sense all of their feelings. Most of the people who ask are boring and selfish. They’re here for themselves, not me, and they give themselves away without me doing anything.”

 

            Hux stares at him with disbelief. “Ren, I arrived over two hours late tonight. I am _sure_ that you were asked to dance at some point during that time. Did you just sit on your throne and, what, _wait_ for me?”

 

            Shrugging again, a hint of sheepishness trickles into his mind. “Yes. Like I said, I’m not really interested in anyone else.”

 

            Baffled, he leans back and shakes his head, careful to hide any non-existent pleasure he might feel at the thought of Ren waiting up for him. “You’re insane! What would you have done if I never came?” Suddenly he is struck by a memory from before he arrived, and he leans back in to argue, “Wait a moment, you must have danced with _someone_. Yesterday a man arrived just as I left and it took you at least an hour to find me. Surely you didn’t turn him away…?”

 

            It takes Ren a moment to remember who he is referring to and when he does Hux nearly drowns in a strong wave of disgust. “Of course I did; that man was vile. He thought he could win me over with _sex appeal_ during a _waltz_. I actually went after you immediately, but you practically disappeared,” Ren complains, never sparing poor little Izar a second thought. “That was rude of you, by the way. I know we were arguing but I definitely asked you to wait-” he cuts himself off and stares at Hux. “...Armitage, are you genuinely smiling while I’m telling you off?”

 

            Quickly schooling his expression back into a frown, Hux firmly states, “Of course not, you must be seeing things.” The corners of his mouth are still twitching and try as he might he knows he cannot hope to stifle his internal joyous glow.

 

            Now Ren is complaining for an entirely different reason. “You didn’t have to stop just because I pointed it out.” If Hux didn’t know any better, he would be tempted to say the Master of the Knights of Ren is _pouting_. “Although now that I think about it,” he muses, “you only started after I…” Trailing off, Ren suddenly sends the impression of a sly smirk. “Why, Armitage, are you really so much of a sadist that you’d grin over a stranger’s misfortune?”

 

            “Am I sadistic enough to enjoy all strangers’ suffering? No.”

 

            Hux imagines Izar being scorned in front of the entire ballroom after confidently approaching and draping himself over the Dark Lord across from him. He imagines him being forced to awkwardly slink back over to the family and live with the knowledge that he’d been rejected by the one man he’d sought to please, all eyes on him after Ren had made his dramatic exit. He imagines the shame and humiliation he had been forced to deal with for the rest of that long evening, imagines him needing an ego boost so badly that he would lie about it to the one person he knew couldn’t dispute his claim, and then imagines telling Izar that he had learned the truth while dancing with Ren the very next night.

 

            Hux _beams_ with wicked ecstasy, unrepentant and uncaring of what Ren might think. “But do I enjoy this _particular_ stranger’s suffering? Oh, most definitely.”

 

            Ren stares at him in a daze, radiating awe like he’s just witnessed something wonderful. For a long moment he is rendered speechless, and when he eventually finds his voice he sounds oddly delighted. “You’re one of the strangest people I’ve ever met.”

 

            Smile already beginning to fade, Hux narrows his eyes and says, “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and choose to take that as a compliment.”

 

            On that note their second dance comes to an unusually cordial end. Hux shuffles back and is pleasantly surprised when Ren lets him go, though his hands linger needlessly. A quick sweep of the room tells him that while the others are still staring, they are doing so not out of fear, but of simple curiosity. He realizes that without the context of their private conversations it would appear that they had gone from shouting to casually turning other partners away. While the misconception is amusing he does not like being pierced through by their prying gazes. It might be a good idea to stop dancing amidst the crowd, at least for a little while.

 

            Turning to Ren, he tentatively gestures to his previous spot by the refreshment tables. “I believe I’m ready for a break.” By now he has learned to expect some level of resistance, so he quickly adds, “To be fair, you _did_ interrupt me earlier, and I never got the chance to finish my drink.”

 

            Ren’s hands flex inside his gloves and he almost nervously asks, “...Would it upset you if I came along?” It is likely unintentional, but a few awkward pangs of uncertainty flutter about the edges of his mind.

 

            Hux rolls his eyes and pats the knight’s shoulder with a playful smirk. “There, there, my Lord, I’m not going to vanish the moment you turn your back on me.” Without waiting for a response he makes for the tables, calling, **But if you wanted to accompany me I wouldn’t mind.**

 

            Suddenly he is dragged to a stop, forced to watch with bizarre affection as Ren nonchalantly strolls past him before he is released. **Kriff you,** comes the cheerful reply. Obviously his discomfort is gone.

 

            Hux catches up with him and waits until they reach the closest table before purring, **You wish,** just to be a tease. He calmly finds himself a new glass as Ren sputters beside him and happens to catch sight of the same woman from before. Coincidentally she spots him at the same time, and with a slight dip resembling a curtsy she offers him a polite smile before returning to her conversation. Again he is puzzled over Ren’s rejection. She seems perfectly demure and far from Ren’s depictions of sycophants approaching him to satisfy their greed.

 

            Glancing back over, he projects, **I still find it odd that you haven’t danced with anyone else.** He experimentally tries to send an image of the woman in the green dress and knows he’s succeeded when he hears Ren suck in a startled breath. **Now that I think about it,** **_you_ ** **were the one to advance on me last night even though you had been more or less omitted from my schedule. What had you going out of your way for me?**

 

            Ren attempts to deflect by shifting his focus to the assorted sweets lying about and humming, **You’re even better at this than I thought. For someone who only learned to project an hour ago, you’ve improved remarkably fast. At this rate I might have to teach you about sharing complex memories.** His fingers drum against the table in a show of restlessness.

 

            Though his interest is undeniably piqued, Hux won’t let him off that easily. **Stalling,** he chastises, taking a sip of champagne. **I would think you’d know better than to underestimate my tenacity by now.** **Answer the question, Ren.**

 

            A wave of hesitation ebbs and flows around him as Ren avoids his eyes, choosing to pick at the tablecloth instead. **You’ll think it’s ridiculous,** he petulantly warns.

 

 **Probably,** agrees Hux, smirking over the rim of his glass as he tucks his free arm behind his back, **but there is only one way to find out.**

 

            Taking a deep breath, Ren steels himself before blurting, **ItwasthewilloftheForce,** and curling inward in defense.

 

            Hux slowly lowers his champagne flute. **What.**

 

            Ren hunches like he's preparing for a blow and clutches the tablecloth in his fist. **I told you you wouldn’t like it.**

 

 **Yes, and I like it even less when you won’t explain it,** he thinks aggressively, shooting daggers at the helmet’s eye slit. **What do you mean** ** _it was the will of the Force?_** **Have you just been blindly following the inclination of some cosmic energy this whole time?!** His disappointment is stronger than it has any right to be and he viciously squashes it down.

 

 **_No!_ ** protests Ren, clearly picking up on his distress anyway. **The Force doesn’t** **_make_ ** **me do anything, it only ever suggests. I don’t just** — He breaks off with a frustrated huff and tries again, going slower this time. **It doesn’t work like that. The Force is always giving me signals about anything and everything, and it requires** **_constant_ ** **interpretation to be of any real use; ‘blindly following’ it is impossible. In this case it just suggested that we might be compatible in terms of energy.**

 

            Hux blinks, unsure of how he feels about the authority that shapes the universe playing matchmaker. **Ren, you are a Dark Lord apprenticed to our Supreme Leader with extreme skill in the Force and immense power. I am a Force-resistant metalworker who only learned that all of this is real last night. So if you want me to believe that the Force thinks we have compatible** **_energies_ ** , he delivers in a flat tone, **you’re going to have to do a lot better than that.**

 

            Insanely, Ren immediately fixates on the least relevant part of his retort. **You’re a metalworker?**

 

 ** _Ren!_** he snaps, putting down his glass to smack his shoulder. **Focus. We can discuss my occupation** ** _after_** **you tell me why the Force is trying to set us up.**

 

 **_Ow,_ ** Ren mutters, rubbing his arm. **What is it with you and hitting?** When he raises his hand and arches a threatening brow, Ren hastily continues, **You may be Force-resistant, but you still have an impact on the Force by virtue of existing as a living being. There are two sides, Light and Dark, and certain people are innately drawn to one over the other. Armitage, you can’t see it, feel it, or use it, but you’re literally** **_surrounded_ ** **by Dark energy. In all honesty, it’s…** He trails off, and again Hux gets the sense that he’s staring at him with awe. **It’s incredible. If you were a Force user you’d be almost as strong as me.**

 

 _Well then_ . That certainly was _not_ the answer Hux had been expecting. He takes a moment to process everything in silence, trying to imagine a life in which he _had_ been born capable of utilizing said Dark energy and instantly giving up. There are too many variables and unknowns, too many facets of his life where circumstances had been out of his control, and the sheer scope of how different things could have been is vaguely depressing. Even so, his damnable curiosity is already rearing its head, and he wants to know more. **...I’m still not clear on what that means. I know that you are powerful, and that you’re skilled in manipulating energy, but just how strong** **_are_ ** **you? What is a Force user of your caliber capable of?**

 

            Ren perks up and Hux can feel his passion before he even begins to ‘speak’, wondering what he’s gotten himself into. **With enough prior planning and concentrated will? Nearly anything. If you look to the past you’ll find that history is repeatedly altered by the actions of the greatest Force users, their impact long outlasting them. Take the Empire, for example. Darth Sidious used his power to build it up, and Darth Vader** —

 

            — **caused it to fall.**

 

            — **brought it glory.**

 

            Surprised, both are caught in moment of mental whiplash by the strength of their conflicting opinions. Hux has to physically step back, wincing at the strange pressure in his head, and turns to face Ren head on, incredulous. **_Excuse_** **me?** **Forget** ** _glory_** **, Darth Vader brought the Empire to its knees! You can’t just bring up the birth of the Empire and expect me to praise the person responsible for its demise.**

 

 **Excuse yourself! Darth Vader was an incredible man and a** **_hero!_ ** The air writhes around them and too late Hux remembers that the man in front of him, previously Ben Organa-Solo, is Darth Vader’s grandson. He still wouldn’t have held back, but it does give him advance warning of Ren’s impending tantrum. Sure enough, the glasses on the table all simultaneously shatter and throw shards of glass into the crowd, though Hux notes that even in his rage Ren has shielded them both. **The disrespect you’re showing him is** **_ludicrous_ ** **and I won’t let you talk about him that way! Take it back!**

 

            Hux gapes at him, ignoring the shouts of pain and fear from their unwitting audience. **I will** **_not_ ** **. You cannot tell me that Darth Vader’s sentimentality was not a** **_direct_ ** **cause of the Empire’s downfall!**

 

            Stiffening, Ren balls his hands into fists and looms over him. **And** **_you_ ** **cannot ignore his accomplishments! His singular moment of weakness** —

 

 **—Resulted in the loss of the second Death Star fortress and the collapse of the Empire,** cuts an unintimidated Hux as he also leans in with a snarl.

 

            — **An Empire that wouldn’t have survived** **_nearly_ ** **as long without him** —

 

            — **According to** **_your_ ** **biased opinion** —

 

            — **And that of my** **_Master, the most powerful Force user of our generation_ ** —

 

            “Excuse me-”

 

            Both whip around and scream, _“What?!_ ” in furious harmony.

 

            The ballroom is dead silent aside from the occasional crunch of broken glass. Everyone, and that means _everyone_ , is watching them with terror-filled eyes. To the outside observer they have just erupted in a rash display of unbridled violence for absolutely no reason and are seconds away from lashing out. The man before them is either bravely stupid or stupidly brave, because he shakes where he stands but doesn’t leave. “Lor-lord Ren, would you care to dance?”

 

            They stare at him in stunned silence before Hux turns away, covering his eyes with his palms and leaving Ren to deal with the poor idiot. _This is unacceptable._ At some point in the conversation he had forgotten himself, swept up in the natural disaster that is Kylo Ren. Something about the knight’s rash way of expressing his emotions has the uncomfortable effect of goading him into losing control, and he realizes that as much as he hates it Hux cannot help but love the freedom. He doesn’t understand why any of this is happening, blast the suggestions of the Force, and it is frightening to know that he honestly doesn’t care. Whatever _they_ are is moving much too fast, and yet he has no idea how to stop, or if he even _wants_ to. Staring forlornly at the puddles of champagne slowly spreading across the floor, Hux regrets having lost the chance to finally finish a glass; he has a feeling the alcohol would have been helpful right about now.

 

            Somehow Ren still hasn’t chased off the interloper and the man is prattling on behind him with enthusiasm. When he turns to face them Hux finds that Ren appears to be giving the man his full attention and the stranger’s body language and gestures are borderline hysterical with stress. It takes a moment to parse out the meaning of his rapid-fire babbling, but it soon becomes clear that he is relentlessly attempting to compliment every single aspect of Ren’s being.

 

            The helmet subtly inclines toward him and a fiery, smug voice says, **Do you see, Armitage?** **_This_ ** **is the level of respect you should show a powerful Force user. After witnessing my strength he’s overflowing with praise and** **_still_ ** **wants to dance with me.**

 

            Hux is too exhausted for this nonsense. **Yes, congratulations,** he deadpans, **it turns out people do, in fact, want to dance with the person these Balls are thrown for.** There is not a trace of emotion to his words.

 

            This seems to bother Ren more than anger ever could. “Thank you,” he cuts the man off, “but I’m not interested in dancing right now.” As the stranger scurries off he turns to regard Hux, and he recognizes the disturbing sensation of Ren probing at his mind.

 

            “Stop that,” he orders, glaring until the strange tendril of energy retreats. “If you want to know what I’m thinking you will have to _ask_ me.”

 

            Ren awkwardly shifts his weight, several glass shards musically tinkling underfoot. “Sorry,” he sulks, and for the first time seems to notice the mess around them. With a casual wave of his hand all the broken glass gathers itself into a loose sphere and floats onto the table, landing in a haphazard pile, but while he considers the golden liquid on the floor he makes no move to do anything about it. Apparently satisfied with his minimal effort to clean, Ren glances up with something approximating shyness. “What _are_ you thinking? I don’t like it when your mind goes quiet, it’s too different from how it usually is.”

 

            Heaving a sigh, Hux turns his back to him and gestures to the eccentric collection of soggy pastries and fragmented champagne flutes taking up a majority of the table’s space. “I am thinking,” he wearily begins, “that I’ve grown very tired of you constantly breaking things, and equally tired of being the one forced to deal with it.”

 

            Ren is clearly affronted, and he is bitter when he argues, “That isn’t fair-”

 

            “My Lord, if I might have your attention for a moment?”

 

            Hux freezes in place.

 

_No._

 

            He knows that voice, has been forced to listen to it ever since he was a child, and even without looking he knows that Pleione is standing barely five feet behind him. Biting his lip, he struggles to conceal his anxiety and prays to the gods that Ren will quickly send him away. Pleione cannot be given the chance to recognize him, not after the Commandant’s theory had come out. If he is discovered here and now, caught red-handed at the worst possible moment, there is no way of knowing what will happen. His only guarantee is that his punishment will be severe.

 

            The gods must be feeling particularly generous tonight, because he hears Ren’s boots squeak on the wet the floor as he faces his stepbrother. “Yes?” he asks gruffly, displeased to have been torn away. “Is there something you need?”

 

            Gripping the table’s edge, he hears Pleione coyly purr, “Care to dance with me?” and attentively listens for Ren’s rejection.

 

            “Yes, I think I will.”

 

            Forgoing concealment completely, Hux whips around to stare at them both, mouth agape. Ren’s only response is a smug nod and insincere, “Sorry,” while he projects, **If you’re tired of** **_dealing with me_ ** **, then I’ll dance with someone else. I’m not forcing you anymore,** **_remember?_ ** Offering Pleione his hand, he sweeps him out to the dancefloor without hesitation and they begin to waltz.

 

            Hux follows them with his eyes and feels himself combust with fury. Something ugly and hot twists low in his gut and he is absolutely _burning_ . Seeing Ren dance with _Pleione_ of all people is agonizing and he wants to make them stop, wants to rip Ren’s hand off of Pleione’s waist and tell him exactly what the _brat_ had said that evening. Hux doesn’t understand. He’s finally gotten what he wanted, a moment of peace, and an opportunity to enjoy the night. If anything he should be relieved, and yet he cannot stop glaring with hot eyes at both halfwits. Pleione doesn’t even deserve to be in the same _room_ as Ren, let alone dancing in his arms, and he is incensed, he is on _fire_ , he is—

 

            ...Jealous?

 

            Cold shock breaks through his rage immediately. His brows arch beneath his mask and takes a backward step, feeling as though the floor has been pulled from under his feet. _What?_ No, that is… That’s impossible. If he is jealous of Pleione then he must like Ren. The logic is sound, he knows, but he is nowhere near ready to accept it. Staring at them with wide eyes, Hux attempts to cling to his cognitive dissonance. Surely this is something else. Disgust, perhaps, or insult at Ren turning him down in favor of _Pleione_ , of taking him into his arms and holding him much too tightly and leaving Hux behind like a _kriffing idiot_ —

 

            Oh, no. Oh, _stars_ no. _I’m jealous._ Hux grimaces, the beast in his gut writhing in confirmation, and feels faintly sick. _And I’m jealous because I like Kylo Ren._ Closing his eyes, he sighs in resignation and turns away from the dancefloor, unwilling to watch them any longer.

 

            Several heads instantly turn away. He’d caught them looking, and yet for all of those that have the courtesy to avert their gazes there are more who are outright staring. Hushed whispers surround him as the other guests pin him in place with searching eyes. The few words he catches are not encouraging, and he is fed up with putting on a show for these cretins. A few tables down several champagne flutes have miraculously avoided the destruction. Hux palms one without breaking stride as he heads for the stairs, determined to finish this third and likely final drink.

 

            Ren wants to leave him alone? Fine. He will have no right to complain when Hux leaves him in kind. He is tired of playing his part in this farcical dance; misery and champagne will make far better company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At first I couldn't figure out why these two keep talking about the Force, but now I'm pretty sure it's just because Kylo is so excited to have someone willing to listen. Most people hear of him and the Force together and immediately want to leave :|
> 
> The outfits this time are pretty different from the previous night's. Hux's was inspired by [this](http://www.vogue.com/fashion-shows/fall-2013-menswear/valentino) Fall look by Valentino, and his mask looks like [this](http://www.purecostumes.com/FM79247/elegant-faun-masquerade-mask.html), but I added the chains and where there's gold his is silver. On the other hand, Kylo's outfit is just an alteration of the [innermost layer](http://costumersupportdept.tumblr.com/post/140176083534/kylux-i-cant-believe-kylo-ren-one-of-the-most) of his robes (the post that leads to is really fascinating, btw. I reccomend giving it a read :D). My drawings of both can be found [here](http://sidera-mori.tumblr.com/post/161342601544/night-two-hux-kylo), but in all honesty I don't really like how they turned out :')
> 
> With any luck part two will be written soon. Thanks for ~~hopefully~~ reading my long notes! You guys are great, and I love talking to you in the comments ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿


	8. Just Because It's Done, Doesn't Mean It Should Be Done II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has somehow been infected by Feelings. It always manages to sneak up on me; my story notes are basically crack summaries of serious events, but I don't realize it until I'm writing them ( ´_ゝ｀)
> 
> Okay, so. In this chapter Kylo sort of briefly steals the show?? Because he can I guess. Most of the stuff in this chapter was absolutely not in the original plan!!! Why do they keep doing this to me!!!!! But even then, this is a second draft that was almost entirely rewritten. My first draft was extremely different and sucked, honestly, and somehow the _most_ unplanned part was the best thing about it. As a result this chapter ended up super long and I still didn't reach the end, so there's going to be a part three. My bad.
> 
> Thanks again to DcDreamer!! Without her this chapter would have gone terribly wrong

** ♛ **

 

            Needless to say, Hux’s journey through the palace is far more leisurely this time around. He immediately chooses to take a different route, not wanting to risk getting lost in another restricted area, and takes careful note of its every twist and turn.

 

            The glass in his hand is emptied gradually, Hux nursing his drink while admiring the decor; the castle’s interior is elegant and tasteful. Rich tapestries drape the smooth walls of the corridors and marble busts sit on tall pedestals in curtained alcoves. The paintings he sees are enormous, engulfing massive sections of stone, and portray intricate landscapes more often than not. Occasionally he passes a servant undoubtedly heading back toward the ballroom, and pauses in his observations to exchange a polite nod or assure them that he is fine on his own. Ultimately, his wanderings are infinitely more pleasant when undertaken with a clear head. But even as the previous night’s anger fails to make an appearance, the burning in his gut remains, and he can only put off examining its cause for so long.

 

            At this point he admittedly lacks a concrete plan, roaming the halls while uncertain of just what it is he’s looking for and carefully ignoring the maelstrom of emotion waiting to converge on his head. Though he passes by several lavish rooms that would be more than acceptable for a brief rest his pace never slows. Hux has no doubt that he will eventually be pursued by Ren; somehow, the thought of being caught in close quarters with the man is ill-suited to his current mood.

 

            Fortunately he doesn’t have to roam too much farther from the ballroom before finding something with more appeal; as he approaches the end of the long hallway he’s been strolling through, he finds that it opens into what appears to be a private sitting area, a variety of chairs and loveseats neatly arranged around small circular wooden tables. There is even a golden chaise lounge hugging one of the walls, a woolen blanket artfully draped across its swooping back. But none of this is what has Hux slowing to a stop rather than leaving.

 

            The back wall of the room is made entirely of glass. Delicate swirls of silver engraving run along the borders of each massive pane, kissing the edges of the dark frames holding the windows in place, and set dead center are a pair of elegantly crafted doors leading out onto a large open veranda supported by thick pillars of smooth granite. The view is beautiful, yes, but what lies just beyond it is even moreso.

 

            Cautiously approaching the wall, Hux sets his empty flute on a nearby table and takes in the most magnificent garden he has ever seen. From where he stands it seems to sprawl endlessly in all directions, vast beds of every kind of flower imaginable flanking winding pathways of broad, flat stone. The fountain in the clearing immediately in front of him is even greater in size and scale than the one at the castle’s front; in place of a series of tiers, it portrays multiple figures shrouded in flowing robes reclining in various states of artful undress, each one pouring water from an urn as they spiral upward along a central slab of rock. More statues of individuals similar in design continue out as far as the eye can see. Immaculate hedges line several of the beds further out, though the pathways continue, and beyond that stand row upon row of trees, many of them sporting canopies speckled with colorful blossoms. It is beyond gorgeous, a testament to one of man’s few triumphs over nature, and it is highly unlikely that he will ever see one like it again for as long as he lives.

 

            But nature will not be outdone so easily.

 

            A storm rages overhead. Fat, thick raindrops brutally collide with the ground and in the background thunder roars, the windows rattling in their panes. Howling winds scatter countless flower petals and viciously assault the distant treetops as black storm clouds drench everything beneath their reign. Even inside the air smells strongly of crushed, fragrant flowers and sharp electricity. Lightning splits the sky overhead, illuminating the garden in stark white, and with practically nothing to muffle the sound the crash of thunder is deafening. Hux watches this powerful display of nature’s wrath and wonders how he ever could have missed it, even from within the thick walls of the palace. Another bolt of lightning spears the heavens and bellows its wrath, and then he is wondering about Ren.

 

            Immediately his heart gives a hopeful little kick and it is  _ sickening _ . Hux grimaces, folding his arms behind him, and glares out at the storm.  _ Gods, I really  _ do _ like him. _ Even now his immediate reaction is to deny it as ruthlessly as possible, but Hux knows himself far too well for that, and he is tired of running. He is alone. At least for now there is no sense in trying to pretend. Here, in the privacy of this forgotten corner of the palace, Hux tentatively allows himself to admit it.

 

_             I… have a  _ crush _ on Kylo Ren. _ Instantly his nose scrunches in distaste and his grip on his forearms tightens, but he pushes through.  _ Ren is annoying, childish, pushy, and insensitive. Worse yet, he is a violent, rampaging fiend, a sadistic torturer, a beast who does not hesitate to kill man, woman, and child. There should be absolutely no place for him in my life. _ And yet…  _ I’ve enjoyed our dances. In fact, I have even enjoyed our  _ bickering _ , inexplicably enough. Engaging with the Force has been a surprisingly positive experience and I would not mind trying again. Ren is… complicated. Even with his incredibly numerous flaws, he has never actually hurt me. Before me he has exposed his vulnerabilities, he has a certain capacity for gentleness, and I… I like him. I like Ren. And I think that he might like me. _

 

            Again his heart flutters uselessly in his chest. The butterflies have returned with a vengeance, as has the warmth in his cheeks, and it is ridiculous. This is hardly his first crush, many an embarrassing memory having been made in his childhood and adolescence, but this is the first time one has risen and grown so quickly. For gods’ sakes, he hasn’t even seen the man’s face! Something about it is unnerving if not outright frightening.

 

            With seemingly little effort Ren has completely derailed him from his original goal and made him more or less forgo his entire purpose for coming. This Masquerade Ball is meant to be his chance to finally escape his father’s clutches, and yet all he has done is indulge this childish infatuation without even acknowledging it as he did. It is startling to realize the only person he himself has danced with is Ren.  _ Is this worth it? _ His heart gives a painful twist.  _ Is the opportunity to leave my father really worth less to me than Ren? _ Lightning flashes, turning the glass crystal clear, and as Hux stares out at the ceaseless torrent he thinks this must be what drowning feels like.

 

            The light fades and a dark shadow looms behind his reflection. “Armitage.”

 

            Starting violently, Hux whirls around to face none other than Kylo Ren. A gloved hand flies to his breast on instinct and he glares, feeling his pulse rabbit beneath his palm. “Ren?” he huffs, indignant. “How long have you been standing there?!”

 

            “Not long.” For his part, Ren sends a tiny burst of apology and edges further into the room, setting his familiar saber on one of the larger tables. The motion provides a brief distraction and Hux distantly wonders why he feels the need to procure it any time he chases after him. “You’re harder to track than most, largely due to your Force resistance. I…” he shifts his weight awkwardly, unconsciously projecting faint traces of intertwined relief and embarrassment, “I thought you might’ve left.”

 

            “Well,” drawls Hux, waving a hand toward himself, “obviously you were wrong. But never mind that.” Frowning, he adopts a casual parade rest and tips his head to one side, fighting back the first acrid sting of jealousy. “Why have you left the ballroom? Were you not in the middle of a dance?”

 

            At the reminder Ren shrugs a shoulder and looks to the ground. “I told you, I thought you left. You have a strong impact on the Force and without you the ballroom felt empty.” With an upward glance he quietly adds, “Armitage, I’m sorry. It was a mistake to dance with that man.”

 

            Though he rolls his eyes, internally the burning thing in his stomach has finally subsided. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ren,” chides Hux. “You can dance with anyone you like. That  _ is _ the entire point of this event, is it not?”

 

            Frustrated, Ren waves that aside and sardonically replies, “Believe me, I am  _ fully _ aware. But I didn’t actually want to dance with him. I only did it because of our argument, and I still only want to dance with  _ you _ . Why don’t you want to dance with  _ me? _ ” Beneath his petulant tone, there is a note of genuine pain.

 

            Hux stares him down in silence, carefully weighing his options. There is one true answer, but to give it would be to reveal several deeply personal aspects of his life. A vast majority of him resists answering immediately. He cannot bear the thought of opening his mouth and explaining that he is a domestic abuse victim who may as well be his family’s servant, that even though his father lives he is practically an orphan, that he didn’t have a single friend until he was twenty-one years old, that he lives at the hearth of his tiny, cold basement. Ren knows him as ‘Armitage,’ and he would rather die than reveal Emberarmie to him.

 

            But there is a smaller, weaker part of him that wants to let him know at least a little bit. It offers up a tiny spark of hope, nothing more, nothing less; he doesn’t have to give everything away all at once. It’s alright to tell him just enough, because Ren will not use this knowledge against him. Hux has already trusted him once tonight. This ill-advised spark is telling him it is safe to trust him again.

 

            Closing his eyes with a gentle sigh, Hux yields to it. He turns his back on Ren in favor of staring out into the garden, mind traveling back to some of his earliest memories, and feels his heart grow heavy. “Have you heard of a province called Arkanis, Ren?”

 

            Fabric shifts behind him and Ren answers, “...No?” voice lilting upward in confusion.

 

            “It is the province I grew up in.” Hux lightly places his hand on the glass, feeling chilled even through his glove, and sees an entirely different storm in his mind. “Arkanis was- or is, I suppose- known for its rain. It rained more often than not, with glimpses of sunlight being rare occurrences. Apparently I was born on a day like this one.” His hand clenches, fingers sliding over the window’s smooth surface. “My mother always loved Arkanian storms.”

 

            Ren comes to stand beside him, staring out into the rain-pelted garden, and calmly says, “She must be enjoying this weather.”

 

            Swallowing thickly, Hux passes the point of no return and blankly states, “My mother is dead, Ren. She’s been dead for a very long time.” Even now the words hurt, no matter how hard he tries to remain detached and distant, and there is a familiar burning in his eyes. He blinks once, twice, and the sensation fades. Unfortunately his grief refuses to do the same.

 

            “I’m sorry for your loss.” At his side Ren extends a cautious hand. When he fails to respond it comes to rest on his shoulder, giving a comforting squeeze, and in such close proximity the air around them both is slowly growing warm. “Do you… want to talk about it…?”

 

            “Not really,” comes his honest reply, “but I am going to try, so listen carefully.” He takes a deep breath and Ren’s hand falls, taking its heat with it. “My mother’s name was Parielle. She was a kitchen maid when she and my father met, and my birth forced them into a loveless marriage. Even then, she was a gentle soul, and not once did she ever think to blame me. My memories of her are… warm.” Pausing, he smiles at the ghostly memory of her laughter. “I saw her less and less as time went on, but in our brief time together we always made each other happy.

 

            “She passed away when I was twelve. My  _ father _ ,” he hisses, eyes thinning with hate, “did not attend her funeral, has never visited her grave, and remarried in roughly half a year. My stepmother had two children from a previous marriage. Both of them are cruel and vicious brats; our parents let them get away with  _ everything _ and they are spoiled rotten, whereas I am…” His nails dig into his palms hard enough to bruise. “...Not.”

 

            “Not,” Ren flatly echoes, the air around them warming dangerously. “I see. Would you like me to do something about them?” His hands flex and the leather of his gloves gives an ominous creak.

 

            “What? No.” Hux glances over, arching a brow beneath his mask, and feels simultaneously touched and annoyed by the offer. “I didn’t tell you about my life for you to organize a  _ hit _ ,” he scoffs.

 

            “Then why  _ did _ you tell me?” Ren persists, agitated. “Why tell me something like that if you won’t let me do anything? What point are you trying to make?”

 

            Now Hux turns to face him directly, staring straight into his helmet’s eye slit. “My  _ point _ ,” he slowly begins, “is that you were wrong earlier. It is not that I don’t  _ want _ to dance with you, it’s that dancing with you is not the reason for which I came. This Masquerade is used for matchmaking, as I’m sure you are aware, and I need to find a rich spouse as quickly as possible. Don’t you understand? This is my one chance to finally get away from my family  _ forever. _ ” Lightning strikes outside and he knows his stare has grown intense. “I  _ will _ leave them, Ren. I’m going to do whatever it takes.”

 

            It startles him when Ren’s hand darts out to find his own, pulling it close to his chest as he urges, “Then let me  _ help you _ .”

 

            “ _ What? _ ” he repeats dumbly, thoughts scattering while his mind refuses to focus on anything outside of the feeling of their clasped palms and laced fingers. Pathetically, this simple action is enough to bring a flush to his cheeks.

 

            “Let me help you.” Ren leans in closer, voice dropping into a low murmur accentuated by the steady hum of rain. “Armitage, I… I know what it’s like, to be the family outcast, to need to get away. I’m- I was-” he fumbles before giving up with a quiet sigh. “I haven’t always been Kylo Ren.” His thumb lightly strokes his own and he tentatively asks, “...Let me show you?”

 

            A questioning, hesitant energy brushes the edges of his mind. Ren might not realize it, but Hux already knows what Ren is trying and failing to reference and can see why it must be difficult to talk about. Though he is slightly concerned with Ren’s choice of words— ‘show’ rather than tell— he grants him entrance. Immediately Hux is plunged into a foreign memory, and he gasps as he sees the world through eyes that are not his own.

 

** ♛ **

 

 _He is five. He knows this with the same inexplicable certainty of a dream, but even without it he would know he is young; he sits on a hard wooden floor in the center of a menagerie of high quality toys, the dining table at his side standing impossibly tall. In front of him is a large structure made entirely of dark, polished blocks. It looks oddly familiar, and_ **Hux is startled to find that it is a child’s rendition of** _the Black Castle from his dreams looms above him. He bites his lip in concentration and extends his small hands in a grabbing motion. It takes longer than he’d like, but another block shakes and wobbles before rising off the ground. It jerks and resists his efforts, threatening to fall at any moment, but is guided by the gesture of his arms and comes to rest at the top of a treacherously stacked tower without incident._ There! _He feels himself beam with pride, the Castle finally done. It’s not as cool as the one he’d seen in his head, but it’s good enough for him. Shakily climbing to his feet, he fights off the pins and needles in his legs and turns to face the table with growing excitement._

 

 _Sitting across from each other are a Man and Woman. Their faces are indistinct blurs, and_ **Hux frowns, wondering if something has gone wrong. Everything else in the memory is remarkably detailed, especially for the memory of a child, but before he can ask Ren quietly volunteers, ...My parents.** ** _Ah._** **That explains things. Understanding the lack of clarity, Hux eases back in and hears** _the Man and Woman are arguing, ignoring him where he peeks over the table’s edge._

 

 _“-we have a child, —! You can’t keep going off on your little guys’ nights out with —_ _and strolling back in the next morning! We’re parents now, you nerf-herder, what part of that don’t you get?! I can’t raise  — on my own.”_

 

_             “And I’m not gonna make you! I come back, don’t I?!” The Man throws his arms out at his sides, fork in hand. “I come back to you and — and I try! I’m  _ trying _ , —, but we both know I’m not cut out for this,” he grumbles, stabbing his fork into a link of sausage. _

 

_             “So what? You think that’s a good excuse? It’s been  _ five years _ , —. I don’t care if you’re cut out for it, we  _ already have a child! _ You don’t get to opt out because it’s inconvenient!” The Woman runs a hand through her hair with a frustrated groan. _

 

_             At the side of the table he clenches and unclenches his hands, palms digging into the edge of the wood while his wide eyes dart back and forth between them. He hates it when they fight. Ever since he started using the Force he’s been able to feel them, and he hates the way their energies darken and storm when they argue. He tried telling the Woman one night while she was putting him to bed, but she got so sad that he never tried again. Blinking up at them, he softly calls, “M—, D—, look. I did it, I made the Castl-” _

 

_             “Not now, kiddo, m—y and d—y are talking,” the Man says, glaring at the Woman. _

 

_             “ _ See?! _ ” she snaps, flinging a hand down at him, “This is what I’m talking about! You didn’t even  _ look _ at him before turning your back!” She pointedly ignores the Man in favor of leaning down to give him a tired smile. “What did you make, sweetie? Will you show me?” _

 

_             He turns to look at the Black Castle over his shoulder and hears the Woman gasp. The Man grumpily says, “What?” and then he’s gasping too. _

 

_             The Castle towers above his head, even with how fast he’s been growing lately, and his stuffed animals are standing out front like the bushes he saw. Wooden soldiers stream in through the open front doors. They’re incredibly different from the people in his dream, dressed up in shining suits and froofy dresses, but they’re all he has and he can’t do anything to fix the wrongness of it. He’s even lined up his toy carriages, gifts from uncle —. The whole thing had taken him all morning. _

 

_             He shyly glances back to the Woman, reaching out with the Force and hungry for approval, but her face has gone pale and she looks almost sick with concern. “—-” _

 

_             “Now, that’s my boy!” The Man stands and circles the table with a laugh, sweeping him up and spinning him around until he giggles. He sits him on his hip and leans in to inspect the Castle with a low whistle before turning to nuzzle at his cheek, grinning. “Look at ‘em, —! He’s a little architect.” The warmth of his pride lights up the Force around him and he sounds wonderfully fond and delighted. “Clever kid. Must get it from you, because I  _ know _ he didn’t get it from me. How’d you do all this, huh?” _

 

_             Small hands push him away, face scrunching up at the rough scrape of his stubble even as he’s laughing. “I used the Force to move the blocks, like M— taught me!” He turns in the Man’s arms to smile at the Woman with searching eyes. “It took me a long time because I’m not very good at it yet. Did I do okay?” _

 

_             The Woman’s answering smile is weak and thin. “You did great, honey. Most kids your age wouldn’t have the patience for that.” She also rises from her chair and drifts closer, eyes locked on the Castle. “You sure put a lot of detail into this,” she hints, scanning it over with a small frown of worry. “Have you seen this castle before, —?” _

 

_             He shifts in the Man’s arms and nods. _

 

_             The Man’s eyebrows shoot up and he hums deep in his throat, clearly amused and thinking he’s making up a story. “Oh, yeah? Where’d you see  _ that,  _ little man?” _

 

_             “In my dream!” he chirps excitedly, and he sends them a quick flash of his memory. _

 

_             This time, there is nothing good about the way they gasp. _

 

_             The Woman darts forward to grab his hands while the Man’s arms tighten their hold. “—, I’m going to ask you some questions about the castle. You have to tell the truth, okay? Can you do that for me?” she quietly urges. _

 

_             “Okay…” He doesn’t like this, doesn’t understand. What changed? Why are they unhappy? “...M—, did I do something wrong?” _

 

_             “No, no, baby, you didn’t do anything wrong.” She bites her lip and looks to the ground before quickly glancing up again. When she meets his eyes her own are fiery and determined. “Is this the first time that you’ve seen the castle?” _

 

_             He shakes his head no. _

 

_             The Woman lets out a shaky breath and nods. “How many times have you seen it?” _

 

_             “I don’t know, it’s been a lot.” He furrows his brow and clenches his hands around the Woman’s. “There’s too many dreams.” _

 

_             “What do you mean, too many?” The Man bounces him on his hip, resettling his weight. “How long have you been seeing this?” _

 

_             He shyly raises his hand, holding up two fingers. _

 

_             “Two days...?” the Woman asks hopefully. _

 

_             He shakes his head. _

 

_             “...Two weeks?” _

 

_             He shakes it again. _

 

_             “Months?” comes the choked whisper. _

 

_             No. _

 

_             Beneath their twin gazes of desolation he starts to fidget, avoiding their eyes. “I want to get down now.” The Man lowers him to the ground on autopilot, not saying a word. He and the woman share a tight, heated glance over his head and the Force around them is vibrating with tension. This is even worse than their fights, because at least with those he can understand what’s happening. Everything’s gone wrong. He glares at the castle with hot eyes and aggressively thinks,  _ This is  _ your _ fault.  _ Something builds inside him, twisting and struggling and fighting to get out, and he lets it go. _

 

_             The Castle explodes. Blocks fly through the air and slam into the walls, breaking on impact along with the rest of his toys. The Man and Woman cry out as they are pelted with debris, the Man quickly dropping to his knees to curl around him as the bits and pieces swirl around the room in a violent frenzy. The dishes and glasses on the table shatter in the background and join the rapidly growing cloud that has formed in the center of the room. He stares up at it in wonder over the Man’s shoulder.  _ I’m doing that, _ he thinks giddily.  _ That’s me.

 

_             The cloud collapses and the pieces loudly crash to the ground _ .

 

_             There is silence. He pants harshly in the protective circle of the Man’s arms and juice drips down over the edge of the table, puddling messily on the floor. Staring out at the destruction, he feels the first tear slide down his cheek and goes cold.  _ Oh, no. No, no, no.  _ What has he done? He doesn’t even have to reach out to the Force to be stifled by his parents’ fear.  _ They’re afraid of me. Oh, no. _ Balling his tiny fists in the Man’s shirt, he wails, “I’m sorry!” and starts to cry. _

 

_             They comfort him and clean up the mess. But the tension never goes away. _

 

** ♛ **

 

            Hux blinks and opens his mouth, dazed and disoriented as the memory comes to an end, but before he can speak Ren shakes his head. “Not yet. I want to show you more.”

 

            He should not let him. This is too personal, too intense. He really shouldn’t.

 

            Closing his eyes, Hux nods his assent and lets the next memory begin.

 

** ♛ **

 

_             He is twelve. The sun beats down on his shoulders, and he knows he’s sweating even in his loose cotton robes. Behind him is a large brown carriage and in front of him is the Woman, older now. She smiles up at him tiredly, kneeling to fuss with the knot of his belt, and she is alone. Part of him had expected it, but it still stings to know that the Man didn’t come home to say goodbye. The worst part is that he knows it’s his own fault. _

 

_             “There,” the Woman says, finally satisfied with his appearance, and slowly stands while bracing herself on his shoulder. At her full height they’re nearly eye to eye; in the last month he hit a growth spurt and now he feels massive and clumsy, his limbs awkwardly stretched, and just in time to meet the rest of his uncle’s students. “I guess this is it, then.” Her voice is thick with unshed tears and she aggressively scrubs at her eyes. Without warning the Woman pulls him into a tight hug, muffling her voice into his neck. “I’m going to miss you so, so much, —.” _

 

            Then don’t make me go. _ The words stick in his throat and he swallows them down, hugging her back just as ferociously. They’ve had this argument more times than he’s willing to count, spent what feels like the entire summer screaming at each other, and he knows better than to bring it up now. _

 

_             That first childhood outburst hadn’t been the last, and the sheer scale of destruction has only grown. The Woman told him he was powerful, and he knew he was the stronger of the two, but where she had learnt to handle the Force with subtle finesse he is wildly out of control. His emotions rage inside him and he frequently snaps, lashing out at a moment’s notice. The Man and Woman tell him that this is normal for a boy his age, that it will pass, but normal boys don’t shatter every window in their house or throw their parents’ carriages, and they don’t have to live with the knowledge that their parents are afraid of them, of what they might do. Normal boys don’t really like him. They seem to hate him more than anything; at first they bullied him for being small and strange, calling him names, and then they bullied him for being tall and gangly and called him crybaby-—. Now they don’t call him anything, not to his face. They don’t talk to him at all. _

 

_             The Woman tried to help him. She tried to teach him to control his anger instead of blindly lashing out, to temper the fire in his veins, but their connections to the Force are just too different. He feels things too deeply, is hurt by things most people never even think about. Everyone’s thoughts and feelings are constantly on display. It’s like they’re shouting their fear and disgust whenever they look at him, and he hates it, wants to hate them all, and something deep inside of him enjoys it. It feeds his anger anytime it rears its head, making tiny sparks combust into flames. The Woman can always tell when he’s getting close to his breaking point and tries to calm him down. Sometimes, it works. Most of the time he either hurts her or pushes her away. _

 

_             Things finally went too far when several of the older kids had jumped him, thinking that being larger meant they were safe. No one escaped unharmed. It was too much, and a mob of parents demanded that his M— and D— do something about him before he could hurt anyone else. The Woman has no choice. He tells himself that over and over again,  _ she has no choice. _ His uncle is the only one who can help at this point. It will be better for him there, with other children strong in the Force. This is for his own good. She is sending him away. _

 

_             The Woman pulls back, her arms still loosely wrapped around his lean frame, and kisses the tip of his long nose. “Be good there, —. Do what your uncle tells you and hold onto the Light. Please, try for me.” He reluctantly nods and she steps away. _

 

 **The world abruptly shifts around him with dizzying speed and Hux is not given time to adjust before he is** _seventeen, his bare feet shuffling on the rough mats they use to train. He’s taller now, his lanky body filling out_ **into something resembling the man at his side** _after hours of brutal sparring and swordplay. Around him practice has ground to a stop, the other students eyeing him warily and used to his mistakes by now. His eyes are on the floor in front of him, not wanting to confront the fact that he’d messed up yet again. There’s blood on the mat and one of the younger children is crying._

 

_             “—.” _

 

_             Looking up into the disappointed eyes of his uncle is painful, and his heart gives a violent kick. Thrail, the boy he’d been sparring with, is clinging to the front of his robes and covering them in snot as he sobs, dried blood running down his chin. — already healed him a few minutes ago but he just won’t  _ stop _ , and the sound is incredibly grating. He grits his teeth and doesn’t say anything, just waits to be scolded. _

 

_             “—, why have you done this?” His uncle’s voice is gentle even when he’s reproaching him, and it always manages to get under his skin. He’d feel better if — would just yell at him. “You know better than to hit with all your strength. Practicing seriously is fine, but no one is supposed to get hurt. You know that Thrail isn’t as skilled with the blade yet and you should have been mindful of that difference. I think you should apologize. Don’t you?” _

 

_             The air around him simmers and the closest sparring partners immediately back away. “No, I  _ don’t _. This whole time Thrail’s been goading and insulting me! He told me you’re ashamed of me and called me an ugly freak!” Hot tears prick at the corners of his eyes and he feels himself getting riled up all over again. The part of him that encourages his outbursts is slowly stirring and sends him a kind wave of acceptance like an old friend. He welcomes it and feels the air heat even further, glaring at — with defiant eyes. “I’ll apologize when  _ he _ does. Until then, he’s getting nothing from me.” _

 

_             — stares at him in shock, feeling the shift in his energy. “—, stop, this isn’t you. You know that what you did was wrong. Thrail shouldn’t have said those things, but hurting him was  _ not _ the way to work through your emotions.” _

 

_             “Then what am I supposed to do?!” The mat beneath his feet rips open in a series of long, ugly tears, as do several others. “It’s not  _ my _ fault that I’m more powerful than him, than  _ all _ of them!” He flings his arms out to encompass the room. Internally he receives another wave of encouragement, his shadow agreeing. “I feel things more deeply— my emotions are more intense— and we all know it! So why should I have to hold back? This is who I am, but you want someone else. Are you really so ashamed of me that you need me to pretend?” The torches rattle in their sconces and paint the walls in flickering tongues of red. He can’t hold back, even as he knows he should, and feels like he is seconds away from breaking. _

 

_             “— _ ! _ ” _

 

_             His uncle’s shout is so surprising that his fury instantly dissipates. He’s shaking from the sudden loss of energy and realizes there’s blood under his nails where they’ve dug into his skin. No one moves, and he is pinned in place beneath his uncle’s heavy gaze. “That’s enough! Have you learned nothing in all these years?! I’m not ashamed of you, but I am beyond disappointed. You need to learn to control your emotions or else they will always control you. Go to your room and meditate on this. You’re banned from sparring for the rest of the month.” _

 

_             Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he rasps, “Yes, Master,” and gathers his things from off the ground. He can feel all of their eyes on his back as he leaves, humiliation dragging his shoulders down, and inside he is burning. _

 

** ♛ **

 

            Before he can speak Ren says, “One more,” and Hux is cut off from himself.

 

** ♛ **

 

_             He is twenty-four and his worldview is crumbling around him. Everyone in the room is on their feet and shouting, jostling his shoulders where he remains seated. The Woman, her gray hair braided into a crown and making her regal in the face of disaster, stands in the epicenter across from a smirking Lady Carise Sindian. The latter’s revelation has rocked the foundations of his world and he stares at her with unseeing eyes, lost in his overwhelming sense of betrayal. _

 

_             The Woman  _ knew _. They  _ all _ knew, her, the Man, his uncle, all of them, and they never told him anything.  _ Would they ever? Were they ever going to tell me? Has this broken some kind of long-term plan?  _ He doesn’t care. They all  _ lied to him, _ and suddenly he understands. Of  _ course _ they feared him! Of course they did! All this time he’s been tearing himself apart for them in every waking moment, resisting the call of the Dark side and struggling to embrace the Light, only to find that the Darkness has been coming from inside all along. It’s in his heart, his mind, flowing through his veins, and he understands everything and nothing. His fists clench in his lap and he watches the Woman face her demons, traces the grim lines of her face with his eyes. _

 

            How  _ dare _ she, _ he thinks, feeling something in him break,  _ How dare she stand there and do this to me. _ It’s too much, he can’t think, and he needs to get out before he kills them all just to find some peace. He shoots up and jerks to a stop just as quickly. Where can he go? Everything he has ever known is wrong, every memory tainted. His lungs strain in his chest and he can’t breathe. Where? Where can he go?  _ Everyone _ knows now. Nowhere is safe... _

 

**_Do you want to leave them?_ **

 

_             He freezes in place, and suddenly he can breathe again. Without his notice his shadow had unfurled itself in response to his distress. He now knows that what he’d believed to be a part of himself is actually an incredibly powerful being, his only friend; Snoke. He feels himself relax, knowing that things will be okay. Snoke will take care of him. He always has, always knows the right thing to say, never tells him he’s wrong to be upset or angry. He used to feel guilty about him. Snoke is a temptation, always encouraging him to embrace his Dark energy, but while his mind told him to resist it had always felt so right to give in. Now he knows why.  _ **_Yes. Yes, please. Tell me how to get away._ **

 

 _There is a pause, and then suddenly they are truly linking. He gasps at the sensation and_ **Hux shudders at the impossibly cold feeling, unable to help himself. If this is what linking feels like then he can understand why Force users would choose not to do it, though he is reasonably sure that this feeling of entering a bottomless abyss could only ever come from a man like** _Snoke shows him his potential. He could do so much more with his power! All of these years he’s wasted his greatest assets and now he can finally be free. He can become anyone and anything. There is already a place for him,_ just _for him, and all he has to do is take it. He wants it. Oh, gods, he wants it._

 

_             Snoke sends his triumphant approval, already pleased at what he finds in him.  _ **_I will take you on as my apprentice and make you a Knight of Ren. But,_ ** _ he warns in a thunderous voice,  _ **_this will not be easy. The path to the Dark side can only be found through pain and suffering, but once there you will never have to suffer again. I can guide you. In exchange, you must give up everything. Are you truly prepared to leave your life behind? Are you willing to pay that price?_ **

 

_             He stares down into the eye of the storm and sees only the Woman. She stands straight and tall, proud even in defeat, and represents everything he’s not: iron-clad will, self-control, unfaltering dignity even as she rages within. Could he ever be that way? If he walks the path of the Light, will he learn to be? _

 

**_Yes._ ** _ He turns his back on her for the last time. That path is lost to him forever. All he can do now is move forward, and take his first step toward the Dark side. It’s his inheritance. It is his  _ destiny _.  _ **_I’m ready, Master. Tell me what you need, and I will obey. I’ll do anything. Whatever it takes._ **

 

** ♛ **

 

            Emerging from the rapid series of back-to-back memories is like coming up to breathe, and Hux sucks in a lungful of air. He is disoriented, the return to his senses far too gradual for his liking, and after what feels like several minutes he is finally reacquainted with his body. The first thing he does with his newfound mobility is slap the back of his free hand against Ren’s chest with an irritated glare. “You could have given me some warning!”

 

            Ren catches his hand, cradling them both, and sends him a silent apology with one of the last few tendrils that remain in his head. “Sorry,” he murmurs, and again his thumb begins its stroking. He gives Hux a few more seconds to collect himself before slowly asking, “...I’m sure you must have questions…?”

 

            “No,” says Hux, and at Ren’s tiny suggestion of doubt he amends, “Not yet. You were quite thorough.”

 

            And he had been. Hux is still reeling from this unexpected shift in perspective. It is as though his understanding of Ren has been forcibly shattered and replaced, leaving him to sort out the differences. Where he has seen violence, there is passion. Immaturity remains, but where he had believed it to be the result of unrepentant childishness it is actually far more complex; Ren has lost his entire world and only just begun to find himself. He remembers a cold day in Autumn and a bouquet of everlilies and can relate all too easily, though he found himself long ago. Even Ren’s tantrums seem far more reasonable in this light. He feels so much, all the time, and Hux cannot begin to imagine living that way.

 

            They have reached a new level of understanding at the cost of sharing deeply personal memories. Somehow Ren has casually slipped past all of his defenses and cornered him yet again. With every backward step he takes Ren is right there with him, unabashedly relentless, and despite all of his efforts the distance between them continues to shrink. While one side of him rejoices the other is in pain; after all, what can come of this? He has a crush, he can no longer deny this, but even if the feeling is mutual there is only one night left to this year’s Masquerade. When the Ball is over they will never see each other again. Ren will return to his duties as the Supreme Leader’s apprentice and Hux will be alone in his basement, living out his days as little Emberarmie. There is no happy ending for them, and this knowledge makes his heart ache.

 

            The air is hot against his skin and the rain falls around them, shielding this fragile moment from prying ears and eyes. Hux looks up from their interlocked hands and quietly whispers, “What are we doing, Ren? Why would you show me this?” To speak any louder would threaten to break the strange thing growing between them, and the thought is unbearable.

 

            Ren’s voice, already low, grows softer. “Because I want you to understand me. And I want you to be a part of my life,  _ beyond _ us dancing at a ball.” He takes a deep breath and glances down to their hands, giving them a gentle squeeze. When he looks back to him his gaze is searing and Hux is flooded with overwhelming warmth. “...I don’t want the palace to hold another Ball next year. Marry me, Armitage. You can leave your family, and I can stop looking. Please, let me help you. Marry me.”

 

_             What? _

 

            Wide-eyed, Hux stares at Ren and feels his mind go blank with panic. All of the blood drains from his face and he feels himself go cold.  _ What are you doing?! _ he screams at himself internally,  _ Tell him yes! Isn’t this exactly what you wanted? Someone rich and powerful to get you away from your family? You already like him! _ But still he cannot speak, and his heart is pounding in his chest. Yes, he  _ does _ like him, and that is the problem; Hux has only just accepted his feelings and now Ren is asking for a lifetime commitment. He isn’t ready yet, and he is afraid.  _ The people you give your heart are the ones most capable of breaking it. _ His mother’s voice echoes in his mind and if not for Ren’s grip he knows his hands would shake. He does not need to marry for love. But can he really marry because of it? Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Hux weakly says, “I-”

 

            “Lord Ren, are you alright? Lord Ren?!”

 

            Their small world is abruptly shattered by the shouting of several men and both of their heads snap to the side. At the opposite end of the corridor is a rapidly approaching mob of palace staff, their worried faces lit by several torches’ dancing flames. But all of them fall away before the man spearheading their progress. Leading the charge is Brendol Hux, cool and collected as always.

 

            His cold eyes are already locked onto him.

 

_             Father _ , he thinks, and then Hux is tearing his hands away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole memory sharing thing was originally unplanned on both accounts. I know I've said it before, but it still amazes me to realize just how unpredictable these two are for me. Kylo in particular tends to throw off my plans, to no one's surprise at all.
> 
> I'm way less solid on my Kylo, so for the bits from Hux's perspective of his perspective(?), his voice might not come through as clearly as I'd want. Lady Carise Sindian was cannon, but the rest of that is mostly speculation on my part. If there are any inaccuracies that's definitey on me, especially when it comes to a) the Force and b) his age, though he did turn to the Dark side at twenty-four.
> 
> Thanks for reading, with any luck the next part will be done soon! :D


	9. Just Because It's Done, Doesn't Mean It Should Be Done III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was an absolute monster. It went through five different drafts and this final version is sort of a Frankenstein mashup of them all centered around the most recent one. I am eternally grateful to DcDreamer for her help; she was the one who had the idea to put the best parts together and found the order for them! On the plus side, the revisions of previously written chapters has come to an end :') The next chapter will be completely fresh so it will hopefully be much easier for me to write. Sorry for the wait. I hope everyone enjoys this, thanks for reading! :D

** ♛ **

 

            Across from him Ren's head whips around immediately. “ _ Father?! _ " he chokes out before turning his incredulous stare on Brendol again. 

 

            Hux feels his heart constrict violently in his chest and sucks in a harsh breath, remembering too late that his louder thoughts may as well be spoken when it comes to Ren.  _ He knows.  _ It’s over now. A heavy weight settles low in his gut and he fears he might be sick. Hesitantly, he reaches out to lightly touch the knight’s tense shoulder. “Ren-”

 

            In one fluid motion Ren turns to face the crowd while simultaneously shaking off his hand, gaze never leaving the Commandant. He extends one arm and his saber flies up from the table and into his waiting palm. “That man is your  _ father, _ ” he snarls, sounding absolutely livid. The air around them shimmers with heat and beneath his mask Hux’s skin grows damp with sweat.

 

            “ _ Ren! _ ” Hux grabs onto his sword arm and shoots a hostile glare at the side of his helmet.  **You have to stop.** He waits for Ren to tear his gaze away, broadcasting his own fury all the while, before forcefully projecting,  **Yes, he** **_is_ ** **my father, which is exactly why you** **_cannot confront him._ **

 

            Ren’s vehement protest is immediate.  **Armitage, you can’t be serious! I** **_felt_ ** **your fear when he arrived; you’ve practically admitted that he’s abusive! How can you expect me to just stand here and let him get away with it?!** Hux unsuccessfully attempts to hide his flinch at the blunt incrimination and Ren grows even angrier. His furious growl is punctuated by the low rumble of thunder and he turns to look back into the hallway, the energy pouring off of him murderous. The angle of his body shifts to block him from the approaching mass and he enters what is easily recognizable as a fighting stance. In the corridor, the palace staff falter.  **This ends** **_now_ ** **,** promises a ferocious Ren.  **I won’t let him hurt you again.** He takes a threatening step forward.

 

            At this point the anxious clench beneath his breastbone is entirely unsurprising, but it is equally unwelcome and he gives his arm another sharp tug, huffing when this yields no response.  **Ren, listen to me for once! Your concern is appreciated but your involvement will only make things worse for me in the end.**

 

            This finally gets through to him, and it is a relief when he pauses to send Hux his dubious confusion though he stubbornly refuses to lower his sword. ... **I don’t understand. Why are you protecting him from me? Why won’t you let me help you?**

 

**Because he will not know to hurt me unless you do.**

 

            Ren’s head snaps back to him and his sword arm dips.  **What do you mean?**

 

            Hux stares him down and cautiously releases his arm, ready to latch back on at the first sign of movement. When it becomes clear that Ren is willing to behave himself he explains,  **Though he is suspicious, my father is currently unaware of my identity. He believes that I am at home completing an assigned list of chores, as do the rest of my family, and all of that will be ruined if you confront him on my behalf.** Biting his lip, Hux stares down the corridor over Ren’s shoulder with troubled eyes. The mob is quickly approaching the halfway point. More importantly, so is the Commandant. He is running out of time.  **You cannot do this, Ren.** The words are not a plea, but a command.  **You** **_cannot_ ** **fight him. He** **_cannot_ ** **know that I was here. Your actions will have consequences that even you cannot spare me from. I told you about my past, but that does not give you permission to shape my future. My problems are my own.** **_Trust me_ ** **.** His eyes widen and he takes Ren’s hand, quietly urging,  **Let me handle this.**

 

            Ren stares at him for a long, tense moment, and Hux can feel his resolve waver. He stares back just as hard and hopes that Ren will make the right decision, that his own choice to share his secrets had not been wrong. The sky bursts with a demonic flash of lightning and Hux holds his breath.

 

            In an agonizingly slow movement Ren turns his back and drops his hand. His projected voice is gentle, yet unquestionably firm.  **I’m sorry, Armitage, but I can’t. Even if he finds out, I can protect you from him, I** **_swear_ ** **. You don’t have to face this alone.** The hand on his saber’s hilt tightens; there is no thunder, but behind them the windows rattle all the same.  **When I said I would end this I meant it. He** **_will not hurt you again._ **

 

            In the space between them Hux’s empty hand lingers. As it slowly falls to his side, he blinks at the broad back in front of him and feels himself go numb. Ren doesn’t trust him. Ren doesn’t _trust_ him, after all that they have done, after all of the blind faith that Hux has reluctantly shown, and he is crushed beneath a wave of bitter disappointment. Ice seeps into his veins and he feels indescribably cold. The more cynical part of him had fully expected this; it slides close and whispers, _See? This is what happens when you let people in._ Every poisonous word deals another aching wound to the smaller, weaker part that had dared to hope. _Shut up_ , he thinks back aggressively, _I can figure that much out for myself._ _Shut up._

 

            Straightening with a vicious scowl, Hux turns on his heel and marches to the doors in the glass wall, pausing just long enough to clip,  **Confront him if you like. I don’t care anymore.** He gives the handle a vicious twist and strides out onto the veranda.

 

**Armitage?!** Ren abandons his post and follows after him, catching up just as he reaches the top of the stairs. His hand makes a wild grab for his wrist and just barely manages to snag it in a tenuous hold. “Armitage, wait! Where are you going?!”

 

            Hux yanks his arm free and moves forward without a backward glance, never slowing. “ _ Home, _ Ren. I am going  _ home _ while I still can.” He takes his first step into the garden and then he is at the mercy of the storm.

 

            The downpour is unkind and in seconds he is drenched. Thin rivulets of water run down from his scalp and trickle past the edges of his mask, nearly blinding him, and ceaseless waves of rain plaster the fabric of his clothing to his skin. A biting chill seeps into his bones and he trembles uncontrollably, his body heat quick to fade. Around him the wind howls and wreaks havoc on what had previously been neatly styled hair. A few loose strands fall into his eyes and he notes that they are his usual shade of red; already the soot has run out. If the Commandant sees him now there will be no question of who he really is.

 

            His pulse jumps at the reminder and a shiver stands all of his hair on end. Even without looking he knows that the Commandant is tracking his every move, his piercing gaze unmistakable now that he is paying attention, and he instinctively freezes mid-stride. Without permission his mind relives every single punishment he has received at his father’s hands; even with so many examples he cannot imagine what the Commandant will do to him if he is caught. Never before has he done something so expressly against his wishes. And never before has he dared to lie to him about it.

 

            It is this thought that breaks him from his trance and has him rushing forward, edging around the base of the giant fountain until he reaches the closest path’s start. Progress is made dishearteningly slow; the storm has not been lenient and he is forced to meticulously pick his way through a mess of vast puddles and downed limbs. Lightning strikes every few seconds, providing just enough light to see by. The ground beneath his feet is a treacherous slurry. A single misstep could send him sprawling, and he is beyond grateful to have paid Maz a visit; attempting this in heels of any size would be impossible. 

 

            He is nearly at the tree line when he is suddenly accosted by Ren. A shouted, “ _ Wait! _ ” is his only warning before powerful arms wrap themselves around his waist, and without thinking Hux struggles to escape. Unfortunately for them both he only manages to throw them off balance. As their feet slide wildly through the mud Ren twists his body to shield him and then they are falling into the nearest flower bed.

 

            Ren hits the ground first and takes the brunt of the impact, but Hux is still jarred when he slams into his chest. He gives a pained grunt and hears Ren do the same. Tall flowering stalks sway around him and his eyes see an ocean of blue between one flash of lightning and the next. Beneath him Ren is dazed and unmoving, his arms loosening their vice-like hold, and he peels himself away with a gasp. Though he wobbles in place and his vision swims dangerously he staggers to his feet and takes a lumbering step toward the path.

 

            A swift hand grabs his ankle and he trips.

 

            Hux lands heavily on his forearms and knees and lets out a low hiss of pain, bending at the waist to shoot the man responsible a glare. “What are you doing?!” he cries, “You have to let me go!” It is a struggle to be heard over the rain.

 

            “No!” Ren shouts back, determined. He is covered in mud and countless tiny blue flower petals cling to his clothing. One has even adhered itself to the front of his helmet, and it is hard to believe that this ridiculous man is the Master of the Knights of Ren. “We can’t keep  _ doing _ this! You think leaving is your only option, but you’re wrong, and you quit too easily. I’m not giving up on you, Armitage, no matter how many times you run, so don’t you  _ dare _ give up on me!”

 

            Hux flinches at the accusation and instantly goes to deny it, but realizes he can’t. Any time an obstacle has come between them he has backed down without a fight. For gods’ sakes, he wasn’t even willing to admit his own feelings, let alone try to consider Ren’s. Guilt and shame constrict his lungs and he slams his fist against the ground, rasping, “Do you still not get it?! I  _ can’t! _ That’s the problem. Giving up on you has  _ always _ been the best course of action, and yet here I am, wrestling with you in a garden!” He viciously kicks at the offending hand and sits up once he’s freed his ankle, staring miserably at a baffled Ren. “Because of you, I have sacrificed my time, my future, and my safety. What more do you want from me?! What more do I have to give?”

 

            Ren returns his stare in silence, still catching his breath, and time seems to falter. The storm tears at the world and only they are still. Light bursts overhead; Ren glows white, painted into something inhuman. The tall blue flowers quiver on their stalks as the sky rumbles, filling the air with their perfume, and he is oddly helpless where he sprawls amongst them, his saber still lying where it gracelessly fell by his side. 

 

            Hux knows that he will never forget this moment. He looks at Ren, sees him in this swaying ocean and sees him exposed and vulnerable, and instinctively knows that they are racing to an ending. Even now it is surreal, like something out of a children’s story. He will never recapture this bittersweetness. If he leaves now, he will lose all of this, forever. The weaker part of him stirs once more and begs him to stay. 

 

            But he knows better than to listen. 

 

            Rising to his feet, Hux nimbly dodges Ren’s reaching grasp and ignores his panicked, “Wait, Armitage-” in favor of exiting the flower bed. “No, Ren. I am done waiting. You cannot stop me. I have to leave.” Before he can argue Hux strides to the path and follows it into the darkness. Once he is sure of his footing he begins to sprint, knowing he will need every advantage if he hopes to outrun Ren. There is no time for second guesses, no pause or backward glance.

 

            “Of course this will end,” he murmurs, voice lost to the rain. “A dream is always going to.” He is on his own now. It is time to move on; there is no value in clinging to worthless sentiment.

 

            If a tear slides down his cheek, it is quickly washed away.

 

** ♛ **

 

            Hux is lost within minutes.

 

            As it turns out, there are no simple, straightforward paths in this garden; all of them branch multiple times, all of them are lined with seemingly identical trees, and none of them are marked. If that is not enough, they are riddled with needless twists and disorienting curves. His sense of direction is destroyed and he lost sight of the palace long ago. Miraculously enough he has yet to stray from the path even with how dark it has become, nearly all traces of light being lost to the thick canopy, and he is reluctant to even briefly allow his eyes to leave the white stone.

 

            As a direct result he is unprepared when the trail abruptly cuts off. Startled, he lifts his head and finds that he has been led to a small clearing in a circle of tall, blooming trees. Several benches are sheltered beneath their boughs, and in the gaps between them are statues of elk frozen mid-bellow. Even in the storm it reads of peace and tranquility. In the daylight it must be beautiful.

 

            There is a stone wall directly behind this clearing.

 

            Hux blinks, feeling raindrops catch on his lashes, and walks forward. The wall is nearly twice his height and its smooth surface offers no handholds. He presses against it with his palm and stares up in grave silence. Scaling it unassisted is impossible. It stretches endlessly on both sides. He does not need to follow it to know that it will not have any breaks, not if it provides security to the castle. There is no way around it, but perhaps he can find a way over.

 

            The tree to his left is ideal for climbing; it has firm, thick branches all the way to the top, beginning well within his reach, and it is easy to pull himself up onto the first one. What should be a relatively simple task is made difficult by the storm; leaves and flowers alike whip at his skin while the wind does its best to shake the tree’s massive trunk, smoother sections of its bark made wet and slick, but it does not take long before the top of the wall is at eye level. Hux scoots out onto the thickest branch as far as he dares and extends his hand; his fingertips graze the wall just barely. It is nowhere near enough.

 

            “Armitage!”

 

            Hux yanks his arm back and turns his incredulous stare on the path. From this vantage point he can clearly make out the advancing form of Ren, largely due to his saber; it is  _ glowing _ , the silver mesh of Ren’s outfit gleaming wetly as though covered in blood. It is impossible, yet as the initial shock wears off he finds himself less and less surprised, chalking this recent development up to more nonsense involving the Force. When Ren finally spots him in his perch he is perfectly calm and more or less resigned.

 

            “...Armitage?” Ren questions, gradually slowing until he is before the trunk and coming to a complete stop. His hand flexes around the hilt of his saber and he stares up at him, boldly projecting his confusion and concern. “Why are you in a tree? Climb down.”

 

            Hux, still focused on his saber with distant curiosity, is suddenly struck by what is most likely a terrible idea.  _ It will never work _ . He studies the blade with a critical eye and drafts a plan.  _ This will never work. _ Heaving a tired sigh, he climbs up even further, only stopping when he is higher than the wall by several feet. “No, I don’t think so. Climbing down would mean spending more time with you, and that never ends well for me, does it?” Settling onto the sturdiest branch he can find, he scowls down at him and broadcasts as much animosity as he can. “I am done with this, and I am done with you.” If this doesn’t work Ren is going to kill him.

 

            Even from high above, Hux can see the hitch in Ren’s breath. “What are you saying?” he demands, pained and frustrated in equal measure. “Look, we need to talk. Come down. You can’t be  _ done _ just like that.”

 

            “Oh, but I can. Face it, Ren,” he gestures between them with a sharp flick of his wrist, pushing his exhaustion and cynicism to the forefront of his mind, “this is not going to work out. We’re incompatible. No matter how much you fight it, you cannot change reality. What do we have in common? What makes you think that this,  _ any _ of this, will be worth it? The majority of our time together is spent arguing. Tell me, what kind of relationship can ever come of that?” His heart stirs uneasily and he hates the words even as he says them. It’s true, they are incredibly different people and they clash more often than not. But that doesn’t make them incompatible. If anything he enjoys the challenge Ren presents and thinks that he would say the same of him, but he cannot tell him that his arguments are flawed. They are meant to hurt Ren, even if he is hurting himself in the process, and already he is feeling the bite of regret.

 

            There is a strange fizzling sound and Hux is alarmed to realize it is coming from Ren; the water on his skin is evaporating. His breaths are deep and labored and he is fighting to conceal his reaction. It is obvious that he is close to snapping, but he refuses to lash out the one time Hux needs him to. Instead he changes the subject. “...Is that your answer, then?”

 

            “Hmm?” Squinting into the woods, he is momentarily distracted by a bright flash of color bobbing through the trees. Lightning strikes and sheds just enough light for him to make out the cause, and his heart stops at the sight of familiar red tresses. It is the Commandant. The Commandant is coming for him. If he was willing to follow them out into this storm, then he must be certain of his true identity. 

 

            “My proposal.” Hux refocuses on Ren and finds him shifting his weight, subconsciously entering a fighting stance. “You never gave me your answer, and now you’re telling me that you can’t see us being together in any capacity. So tell me.  _ Is that your answer? _ ” The fizzling grows louder. Even as he asks he must already suspect.

 

            Staring down at him, Hux feels sick to his stomach.  _ Don’t, _ his heart begs. He does not want to do this. He never did, not really. He did not want to end another night in a panicked scramble. He didn’t want to rush out into a ferocious storm and he didn’t want to battle the elements. He didn’t want to leave Ren’s side, didn’t want to leave behind his warmth for another night in his tiny, cold bed, didn’t want to lose their fragile connection and hurt Ren all over again. It seems like all he ever does is run from his family, and he is so, so tired. All he wanted was to hold on to their one solitary moment of peace, and if he could he would take them back to that moment in a heartbeat.

 

            But no matter how much it pains him to admit it, he can’t. The moment has passed, he is pursued by the Commandant, and no matter how pleasant the dream he must always wake up eventually. ‘Want’ is irrelevant. If he continues with his plan, he risks losing Ren if he hasn’t already. But if he chooses to stay he will lose  _ everything _ . The longer he hesitates the more anxious he grows in the face of uncertainty. Every path leads to another unknown with one exception; if his father catches up to him, he will not be Hux or even Emberarmie. He will be the same twelve-year-old boy staring up at the Commandant from the floor: dirty, frightened, bleeding; eternal family disappointment. He cannot do it. Hux cannot live through that, not again, and the time for holding back is over. The point of no return has come and gone. He has to finish this.

 

            Closing his eyes, he braces himself and sharply inhales through his nose, ignoring his heart’s distress. “...I will never marry you,  _ Ben. _ I know who you really are and I know exactly what you’ve done. You cannot hide the fact that you are from the New Republic. You cannot deny that your bloodline is tainted. And you cannot have everything you want just because you’re the son of a princess and a smuggler.”

 

            Silence.

 

            Hux peeks down through his lashes and finds that Ren has frozen. He does not move, he does not speak, and he certainly does not project anything. There are no visible signs of wrath and he has gone unnaturally still. For a long, horrifying moment he fears that he has done all of this for nothing, that Ren will walk away or simply use the Force to pull him down.

 

            A heartbroken howl shatters the night. 

 

            Ren’s saber is a glinting blur, its blade sparking wildly like a roaring flame, and it cleanly passes through the tree’s thick trunk in a single vicious arc. The branch beneath him gives a violent lurch and the tree is falling. Time slows to a crawl. Hux stares down in disbelief, wide eyed, and sees Ren staring back at him with the dawning realization that this had been his plan all along. The trunk slams into the top of the wall and the impact shakes him loose in a rain of petals and leaves. He begins his graceless descent. As he slips beneath the wall’s rim, he makes terrifying eye contact with the furious Commandant where he has emerged from the shadows. There is a flash of recognition, a hint of shock. He blinks once, and the moment is gone.

 

            Hux is brutally flung to the ground, crashing down through several branches and landing on his back with a loud thump. The air is forced from his lungs and he cannot breathe, his garish wheezing drowned out by the ringing in his ears and the pounding of his heart. The cold sting of rain cascades over his rapidly bruising skin and his entire body screams in pain, flooding him with the fiery heat of agony. Hux sightlessly gazes into the sky and gives a slow, stupid blink. Bright spheres of white dance before his eyes and he waits for the burning in his lungs to stop. His thoughts drift in and out of focus. He can feel himself bleeding from several jagged cuts where the thin fabric of his clothing has failed to protect him. It must be torn. Insanely, he wonders if Maz will scold him for the rips and stains. It is difficult to think of anything at all.

 

            After far too long, the fog of pain dissipates enough for rational thought and he finally regains his hearing. The ringing fades gradually; he is immediately assaulted by the sheer volume of Ren’s useless shouts. 

 

            “ _ -itage! Answer  _ me, dammit! Are you okay?!”

 

            Rolling over with a stifled gasp, he attempts to answer that question for himself. Every single muscle in his body loudly protests the movement but upon further assessment nothing appears to be broken.  _ Unbelievable.  _ Despite the considerable odds stacked against him, he had somehow gotten lucky. Though his legs struggle to support his weight he still manages to rise to his feet, leaning sluggishly against the wall, and he pushes off to take a trembling, careful step. His shoes sink into the mud and he drunkenly sways, but he is standing. He can walk. He is scraped, sore, bruised, and bloodied, but he can walk, and that is all that matters in this moment.

 

            On the other side of the wall Ren is still shouting for him. “ _ Armitage! _ Talk to me,  _ please, _ say something. Anything! You can yell at me if you want. Just- just let me hear you. Tell me you’re okay.  _ Armi- _ ”

 

            “That’s quite enough, Lord Ren. I think we can safely assume he won’t be answering.” 

 

            Hux feels his blood run cold and staggers in place, lungs clenching violently.  _ The Commandant. _ The Commandant knows who he is— saw his hair, met his eye, recognized his face. He sounds disinterested if not dismissive; it would be easy to miss the anger lurking just beneath the surface of his words. Hux has rarely heard this particular tone, but the few times it has appeared in his life it has always led to unimaginable pain. Breathing feels impossible and his legs shake out of his control. 

 

            His voice grows louder and Hux can hear the loud crunch of his father’s footsteps. “You gave the palace staff quite the scare, my Lord. When you summoned your saber in the middle of your dance with _ my son, _ we all believed you had detected a potential threat. I see now that your reasons for leaving were…  _ different. _ ” Hux can practically see him sneering with revulsion. “But never mind that,” continues the Commandant, his tone borderline pleasant in a way that can only be described as unnerving, “why don’t you tell me about this ‘Armitage’? Perhaps I can help you look for him.”

 

            There is a long pause, and Hux cannot move, does not dare to breathe.

 

            “...No, that won’t be necessary.” There is a sudden scrape of metal against stone right in front of him and he instinctively jerks back. “I can find him myself.” If the Commandant’s voice is cold, then Ren’s is downright frigid. Both Huxes are on the receiving end of his unspoken threat.

 

            “Well, then…” The Commandant does not sound pleasant anymore. If anything he has only grown angrier. “In that case, I shall take my leave. I bid you a goodnight, Lord Ren.” His footsteps begin anew and die away as he casually retreats.

 

            That is more than enough warning. Hux pivots as quickly as he can, ignoring the black spots swirling in his vision, and limps off toward the side of the palace. Time is up. The dream is over and he is caught up in a nightmare. His family will be leaving soon, and they cannot arrive to an empty house. 

 

            He needs to find his carriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so. I would definitely appreciate commentary on this, because I'm still in a limbo state on how I feel about it. It was hard to jump from such a tender atmosphere to a full on chase scene. 
> 
> The original story has Cinderella climb a pear tree in the palace garden, and while the tree definitely gets cut down she wasn't in it at the time... Oops? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ In my defense, there also wasn't a Knight of Ren with an unnaturally sharp sword or a wall.
> 
> Edit:
> 
> After seeing the reception this chapter has been given, I've decided to explain some of the reasoning behind its events. First off, while I agree that Hux isn't behaving with as much logic as he usually displays, I want to make it clear that he is afraid and fear tends to make people irrational. He is being confronted by someone who has abused him his entire life and being asked to put all of his trust in a man he met two days ago who has made it clear he will not do the same. Yes, he _did_ come to the ball specifically to escape his family, but there's a huge difference between doing so by gaining power and distance and having to directly face his main abuser. I can understand why seeing him react this way would be frustrating, but believe that under the circumstances it could still be considered reasonable. My second reason is less involved but equally compelling: this fic is based on a pre-existing story. If it weren't then I would have considered having him stay and work things out with Kylo's help, but as this is a fusion AU he has to run away to move the plot forward. Cinderella runs every single night of the ball and my goal is to blend the original tale with cannon as closely as possible. I already have a detailed outline catering to that purpose and intend to follow it to its conclusion. If you still disagree or feel like there was another way to end with him running, feel free to tell me about it! I'm glad to hear everyone's concerns, even if they are a little disheartening, because I take it to mean that you're invested in the story :)

**Author's Note:**

> My [tumblr](http://sidera-mori.tumblr.com).


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